


Collateral Damage

by SilentAuror



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drama, Fix-it fic, Love Triangle, M/M, Moriarty is Alive, POV: Sherlock, POV: third person, Series 3, Snipers, set immediately after HLV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-09
Updated: 2015-08-09
Packaged: 2018-04-13 17:52:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4531416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilentAuror/pseuds/SilentAuror
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Upon learning that Moriarty is alive, Mary disappears, leaving Sherlock and John to work on the mystery of Moriarty's survival on their own. Until Mycroft's people find and bring her back...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Collateral Damage

**Collateral Damage**

 

“You’re sure.” Sherlock stops in front of Mycroft and delivers a hard stare. “It could just be someone tampering with old video footage.”

“We’re tracing it now,” Mycroft says grimly, unmoved by the stare. “Trying to, at least.” He gestures to the interior of the car, where the _Did you miss me?_ is playing on a loop. 

Sherlock’s attention is drawn rather to the argument occurring just behind him on the tarmac. He keeps his eyes on the screen, frowning and pretending to study it, but attunes his ears to John and Mary’s voices instead. 

“… but you _said_ ,” Mary is insisting through her teeth, too obviously trying to keep her voice down. 

“Well, we thought so,” John says, the edge of frustration to his tone suggesting that it’s not the first time he’s said it. “There was a body, all right?”

“But who doesn’t confirm a kill?” Mary demands, as though John is being completely obtuse. “That’s the first order of business: make sure you’ve got the right person! For God’s sake, John!”

“It wasn’t exactly _my_ investigation,” John returns testily, his jaw audibly clenched. “I wasn’t even involved.” 

Sherlock chooses that moment to turn around, pasting a smile onto his face. “What’s this, then?” he asks, rather jovially considering he’s just been reprieved from an eventual death sentence in Serbia. (Never mind. Process later.) 

Mary opens her mouth but John pushes forward, his face breaking into a look somewhere between relief and exasperation. “Sherlock!” He comes forward and for some reason chooses now of all times to pull Sherlock into a firm embrace. “Thank God.” He sounds more relieved than irritated and Sherlock is privately pleased. He is careful to keep his face expressionless, aware of Mary’s watchful, needle-like gaze as John releases him most of the way and adds, “That was a bloody close call! Christ, you scared me!”

Sherlock gives him a slightly confused smile, feeling his brow furrowed. “Have you not heard about Moriarty?” 

“Yeah, just now,” John says, the relief fading rapidly. He clears his throat, as though remembering the business at hand. “About that: was it not confirmed that it was him?” 

Sherlock gives him a somewhat pointed look. “If you recall, I was out of the country during the investigation,” he says dryly. “According to Scotland Yard, it was him, but these things can always be faked. Dental records, DNA samples. Nothing is secure these days.” 

“But it’s certain now?” Mary asks, a strained drive to know showing through her voice. “He’s definitely alive?” 

Sherlock studies her for a moment and privately wonders why she is so invested in this. He shrugs, his gloved palms upward. “Nothing is certain at this point. John: would you care to assist me in starting from there?”

“Yes, of course!” John says instantly. He turns to Mary. “Er, if you don’t mind,” he adds, a bit awkwardly. “I mean, the sooner we know, the better, right? Could be it’s all some trick or something.” He glances at Sherlock. “I might have suspected it was all your brother’s doing, designed to get you out of that mission.” 

“If only,” Sherlock says. “Shall we?” He cannot wait to be shed of Mary’s razor-sharp gaze and is poor at disguising the fact. 

“Right,” John says, to Mary. “I’ll be home later on. I’ll text or something. Let you know.” 

“Fine,” Mary says, sounding a bit unfocused. Sherlock glances sharply her way, but Mary is already turning and making her way to their car, fingers clenched around the edges of the red coat that won’t close over her belly any more. 

John is looking at him rather than at his wife. “Sherlock?” he prompts. 

Sherlock snaps to attention. “Let’s go,” he says, and they walk over to where Mycroft has been standing, talking into a mobile but surveying the play-out of their little scene with critical interest. His eyes flicker over John and then meet Sherlock’s with a glimmer of something like satisfaction. “Where are we?” Sherlock asks briskly, and his brother ends the call without saying goodbye. 

“Get in,” he says, no levity in his tone, and they both do as instructed, at least this once. The car starts and Sherlock can’t help but look over at John, taking in his troubled face as he watches the screen with Moriarty’s distorted image repeating the phrase over and over again. 

_Did you miss me?_  
_Did you miss me?_  
_Did you miss me?_  
_Did you miss me?_

*** 

They spend hours in Mycroft’s office reviewing paperwork, comparing blood work, listening to Mycroft make calls, until Sherlock finally can’t take it any more. A nameless security guard permits them to exit Mycroft’s underground lair and into the night. The sun, which had been on the brink of setting when Sherlock’s plane turned around mid-take-off, has long ago set. 

“But there _was_ actually a body?” John asks as they stand there, buttoning their coats against the chill January air. “I mean, on the roof. They did find him up there, after you…” He stops, still unwilling to say it after all this time. Sherlock isn’t sure whether to feel fond or guilty about this. 

“There was,” he confirms, filling in the silence. “It was found the next morning by one of the maintenance staff. There was a gun found not far from his hand with his prints all over it. They matched the prints that had been taken when my brother had him in custody months earlier. They also took his dental records at that time, and as we just learned, those were a match as well. I suppose he could have hacked into the system and replaced both sets, but he would have had to have known which body he was going to use well in advance of that confrontation.” 

John glances at him. “So let’s say he did,” he posits. “So Moriarty – ”

“Shh,” Sherlock interrupts, looking around. He raises his hand for a taxi. “Hungry?”

“Starving,” John admits, checking his watch. “Dinner?” 

“The Chinese will still be open,” Sherlock responds, and feels an unwelcome stirring of anticipation as a taxi slows at the kerb. He hasn’t had a moment to spend with John alone since Christmas Day. He’d honestly thought to never see him again when he boarded the plane, the realisation of it just beginning to dig its claws rather painfully into his back like a bird of prey when Mycroft called and turned everything around. He follows John into the taxi, closing the door as John gives directions and then sits back. He knows better than to talk about it in front of the driver. Sherlock checks the driver’s face surreptitiously anyway; he’s had enough experience with London’s cabbies to be cautious now, especially if Moriarty is indeed back. 

The silence in the car is companionable, though Sherlock senses that there is a great deal that John is not saying, and quite probably not only about Moriarty. There’s the thing that’s always there somehow, that came back in force when he was released from the hospital and allowed to continue his recovery at Baker Street under John’s careful eye. It’s the thing that they never talk about, never acknowledge, yet is nevertheless there. John lets him pay for the taxi, then waits on the pavement outside the Chinese restaurant for Sherlock to slide out after him. “So Moriarty somehow convinces you that he blew the back of his skull out, and yet you didn’t notice that he’d faked it? How is that even possible?” John asks, leading the way inside, looking back over his shoulder as he asks the question. “I mean, didn’t he – ”

He shuts up again as Mr Lee hurries over to exclaim joyfully at their presence and show them to their usual corner table. As is nearly always the case, they are the only customers. Sherlock checks the time on the wall clock. It’s after midnight. Mr Lee will take their order (hardly necessary at this point, but he enjoys the formality of the ritual) and then bustle into the kitchen to help his wife prepare the food, leaving them in the relative privacy of the restaurant where they can talk. They strip off their coats, allow Mr Lee to conduct the ritual of asking what they would like (he doesn’t write a single thing down), and bring them a pot of jasmine tea before disappearing into the back, and then John can finally continue. He leans in across the table. 

“How long was there between the shot and – when you called me?” John wants to know. His elbows are splayed out on the table as he leans on his forearms, his eyes dark blue and serious in the low-hanging lamp above the table. 

“Only a minute or two,” Sherlock tells him, mirroring his posture. 

“And you were alone on the roof? Completely alone?” 

“Yes, I believe so,” Sherlock says. “It’s a very open space. Though I suppose there are neighbouring rooftops, that sort of thing.” 

John frowns. “And you didn’t check the body?” 

Sherlock stiffens very slightly, hearing the echo of Mary’s demand. “No,” he says. “I was… slightly preoccupied. With you, namely.” He’s never told John about the snipers. Never could bring himself to do it, somehow. After the initial conversation when John told him that he didn’t care why he’d jumped, the opportunity to discuss it further had never seemed to present itself. 

John looks taken aback. “With me?” he repeats. “You mean, with that genuinely terrible phone call?” 

Sherlock hesitates. His lips compressed, he occupies his hands in pouring the tea, first filling John’s cup and then his own. “There never seemed to be a good moment to tell you,” he begins, feeling awkward. “But – there were snipers. Three of them. One for Mrs Hudson. One for Lestrade. One for you. Their orders were to shoot their targets unless I was seen to jump. The only person who had the power to call off the order was Moriarty, and he shot himself. I mean, I was looking directly at him when he did it. And once he’d done it, I knew that I had no choice but to jump if I didn’t want the three of you killed. I had already come to realise that I would likely need to do it and had texted my brother to tell him which operation to prepare.” He keeps his voice very steady as he speaks, somehow unwilling to look at John as he delivers this information. When John remains silent after this, however, he risks a look upward, from beneath his eyebrows. 

John is looking at him, his eyes wide. He swallows. “But – you can’t have known that you would survive,” he says, sounding stunned. “That was a _long_ way to fall! And I – ” He stops, the words apparently sticking in his throat. He tries again, his voice quieter. “I saw you,” he says, getting it out this time. “I saw what you looked like after you’d hit the ground.” 

Sherlock shakes his head. “I fell onto a mat,” he says perfunctorily, averting John’s gaze. “You were knocked out. Briefly. It was just enough time to stage it all. The blood. Your reaction. I needed the sniper to see you seeing it. For your own safety. And,” he adds, raising his eyes to John’s as he remembers this other sore point, “that was why I couldn’t let you know that I was alive. There was no way to ensure that those three people were the only ones that Moriarty had given those instructions to. I refused to risk your life, all for the sake of – ” He stops abruptly, realising he very nearly said too much. He sits back, withdrawing his arms from the table as well. 

John doesn’t move. “For the sake of what?” he asks, his eyes fixed on Sherlock’s. 

_Keep your eyes fixed on me,_ Sherlock remembers, but does not repeat the words aloud. That day is still rather poignant in his own memory, too. He fidgets, trapped by the question. “For the sake of – our friendship,” he says, very carefully. He must keep this light. He shrugs a little, his fingers plucking a pair of still-wrapped chopsticks from the table and stripping the paper from them. “Just because I missed you didn’t mean I was about to risk your life. I needed you to keep mourning.” He ducks his chin. “Though, of course, I’m sorry that you did. That you had to. I – wish you hadn’t.” 

For a moment, John doesn’t speak. When he does, it comes with effort, his voice thick. “Why didn’t you tell me?” 

Sherlock glances across at him. “John…” he begins, but John interrupts. 

“After, I mean. _Christ_ , Sherlock, don’t you think I should have known that? What you did for me, and the others? Why didn’t you tell me?” John repeats, staring at him. 

Sherlock feels his lips compress again, ever so slightly, the lines around his mouth tightening. “You said you didn’t care how I did it,” he reminds John quietly. “When you said you only cared why, I assumed you meant only why I hadn’t told you, and somehow, with Mary there… I don’t know. I thought you didn’t want to hear about it.”

“But – ” John sits up and rakes his fingers through his hair. “Okay. All right. I did say that I didn’t care how and all of that and I shouldn’t have. I was angry at the time. But later, sometime, couldn’t you have… no. I guess not. I can see that there’s no great way to bring that up, especially if you thought I didn’t want to talk about it.” He sighs, leaning forward again, his eyes intense. “I wish I’d known all that. A long time ago.”

Sherlock feels the edges of that of which they never speak rising dangerously into the air between them. There are any number of things that he should not say at this point. _Why, would that have changed anything? You still would have married Mary, would you not?_ Speaking of which. “You forgot to call Mary,” he says. 

John looks blank, and Sherlock repeats her name, prompting his memory. “Oh,” John says. “God. I completely forgot. I didn’t think of it once.” He takes out his phone and winces. “It’s very late. She’ll be sleeping by now. I assume she’ll have worked out that I’m staying at Baker Street. If I may, of course.”

Sherlock represses the urge to sigh and touches his serviette to his mouth instead, trying to hide the annoyance that surges privately at this. “Of course,” he says, echoing John’s words. “You know that you don’t have to ask by now, surely.” 

John smiles, a slow, rather lovely smile that makes his eyes look as though they’re welling with affection. Dangerous at this hour of the night, Sherlock thinks, and swallows, his irritation gone as quickly as it arose. 

Mr Lee brings out their soup and an order of piping hot imperial rolls. They thank him and he beams and retreats to the kitchen once more. 

“I’ll just text her, in case she checks,” John says quickly, apologetically. 

(Why apologetically?) Sherlock watches him type with both thumbs, quicker than he is with a real keyboard. Is he still apologising for having moved out on Christmas Day, one week ago? It was a long week and feels much longer, somehow. The series of large events that have taken place between then and now stretched out the days. They’d talked about it, though. John had been apologetic throughout the month he’d stayed at Baker Street, cooking and fussing and changing bandaging. Listening for irregularities of heart beat with the cold of his stethoscope pressed up against Sherlock’s chest. Making endless cups of tea and taking out the rubbish and generally making Sherlock miss the days of their shared domesticity so fiercely it ached worse than the bullet hole in this chest.

He’d known, of course. He’d known since before the wedding in a vague sort of way, but it had taken until the moment of hearing John repeat his vows to Mary to realise it entirely, the stark reality of it staring him in the face, the oxygen in the stuffy stone sanctuary seeming to evaporate in an instant. He loved John. Had always loved him. It was impossible to conceive of a time when he hadn’t, impossible to pinpoint a precise moment of it having started. It must have come upon him gradually, nesting into his subconscious and skin at the cellular level and growing until the moment when he was forced to see that every part of himself had been flooded with it. It was impossible, of course. It always had been, no matter how his mind had curiously probed in that direction. It could be argued that John felt it, shared his feelings on some level, but never consciously. Never overtly. He says it all the time, that he’s not like that, and Sherlock has never challenged him on this point. He watches John send the text and says nothing, eating his soup, more aware of John than he is of what he’s eating. He thinks of the way John hugged him earlier and wonders why he permitted himself the gesture once he knew that Sherlock was not leaving rather than when they were both sure that he was. It’s not logical, not something that he can understand, which is another confirmation that it could never happen between them. He doesn’t function that way, does not know how to behave that way toward someone else, and John – John is a romantic, a dreamer beneath his cynical surface and wary trust issues. At heart, John is someone who would know how to give the sort of gift that produces the expected reaction, whereas John’s reactions to Sherlock’s various gifts over the years have generally tended to be somewhat baffled (but not displeased) surprise. John knows how to behave like a lover. Sherlock, patently, does not. 

Nonetheless, he occasionally finds it difficult to suppress the urge to hope. And hope is the most dangerous thing there is. John presses send and looks up with a quick, tight smile. “That’s that done,” he says. “So, tell me: do Lestrade and Mrs Hudson know?” 

About the snipers, Sherlock presumes he means. He shakes his head. “A bit awkward to bring up in casual conversation,” he points out. 

“I suppose,” John admits. “Still. They should know. You know: what you did for them. What you saved them from.” 

Sherlock doesn’t comment on the hanging preposition, but pushes the plate of imperial rolls toward John. “If it comes up,” he says vaguely, and changes the subject. “To return to the point, that’s why I was preoccupied: I knew that I had a limited amount of time to demonstrate clearly that I was going to jump. I didn’t take the time to examine the body. He was lying still and there was blood pooling from beneath his head. He fired directly into his mouth. I suppose he could have shot a blank and used a blood pack to simulate bleeding out, but there wasn’t time to inspect it. My brother informed me that the police had recovered the body and confirmed a positive identity match with Moriarty. I didn’t even know who performed the autopsy before this evening in Mycroft’s office.”

John shakes his head. “I suppose there’s no way to know now. I mean, obviously they found _a_ body with the back of the skull blown out. If Moriarty managed to change his dental records and fingerprints, then I guess we just can’t know.” He picks up an imperial roll and bites into it. 

“I wonder if they’ve got anywhere with the trace yet,” Sherlock says, taking a sip of tea. 

“Mycroft said it was blocked,” John reminds him. “Though I suppose his people are probably pretty good with that sort of thing.”

“Rather,” Sherlock says dryly. They finish the rolls and their soup and Mr Lee comes out bearing platters of chicken and rice and their conversation turns lighter as they eat. They walk the sixty metres to Baker Street and Sherlock comes upstairs with John to check that the bed is still made up and that he has everything he needs. John assures him that it’s all fine and Sherlock starts for the stairs. When he reaches the doorway, John’s voice calls him back, saying his name. Sherlock turns. “Yes?” 

John is standing next to the bed, holding his phone and fidgeting with it. His eyes are sober. “Maybe I should have said earlier, but… I’m really glad you didn’t go to Serbia. Really fucking glad. I just – yeah. Just putting that out there.” 

Sherlock smiles at him, a warmth that he tries very hard to ignore blooming in his gut. “So I am,” he says. “Sleep well.” 

John smiles back. “You, too,” he says. “Don’t stay up all night thinking.”

“I won’t,” Sherlock promises, and pulls the door closed behind him before descending the eleven stairs to the first storey. He goes to the bedroom, plugs his phone into its charger, and takes off his clothes. John still has everything he needs here. Spare clothes that he didn’t take with him on Christmas Day, an old phone charger that lives permanently in the upstairs bedroom, even pyjamas and his old dressing gown. He could just stay. Sherlock wishes devoutly that he would, though he knows that it’s impossible. John talked on and off throughout the autumn about needing to keep his word, be a good father, go back to Mary and try to make a go of things. And Sherlock had agreed and told him that he should. Not the words he wanted to say, but the words he was required to say. He is no expert on love – far from it – but he understands the basic principle that loving someone means wanting to see him happy. John should, therefore, have what he wants, and if Mary is what he wants, then Sherlock supposes that he should have her. John will go back in the morning, though they’ll continue to work together. That’s good: having the work. They’ll always have that. 

But just for tonight, it’s good to have John’s presence in the flat again. It always feels so empty without it. 

Sherlock gets into bed and crosses his arms beneath his head, gazing thoughtfully at the ceiling to where John is lying nearly directly above him. If it comes to that, he’s more relieved than he’s had time to fully process yet that _he_ is in the flat, himself. By all rights, his punishment for having shot Magnussen should have had him somewhere unpleasant in eastern Europe about now, conducting an impossible mission designed to result in his death, rather sooner than later. But he isn’t in Serbia: he is here. At Baker Street. And John is here, too. 

It almost doesn’t even matter about Moriarty. (Stupid. But the thought remains regardless.)

*** 

In the morning, John is awake before him, the sound of the shower waking Sherlock. He turns onto his back and stretches, listening to the rhythmic white noise of the water. He never had to adjust to John not being here, because he spent the past week in a cell. He didn’t have to experience John and Mary as a couple again until the tarmac, and that, at least, had been mercifully brief. It occurs to him that he will probably only hear this sound very occasionally at best in the future: John showering in the bathroom at Baker Street, just a door away from him. 

(Never mind.) Sherlock bestirs himself, yawning, and gets out of bed to put some coffee on. He is reading one of the papers in his dressing gown when John emerges from the bathroom. “Good morning,” he says, looking up to smile briefly at him. 

John smiles back, seeming rather affectionate. “Morning,” he says. “Only a week, and I’d already forgotten how much I love the shower here. Oh, you made coffee. That’s great!” 

Sherlock shrugs and closes the paper. “I suspect we’ll need it. I’m going to shower, and then we should check in with Mycroft.” 

“Absolutely.” John waves him off and Sherlock goes to shower. When he rejoins John in the kitchen, dressed and shaved, John is just serving two plates of breakfast, to Sherlock’s gratification. 

“You didn’t have to cook,” he protests mildly, nonetheless sliding into the chair he’d vacated prior to the shower. 

“Nonsense,” John says briskly, refilling Sherlock’s coffee cup and pushing it over before sitting down across from him. “It’s the least I can do for your hospitality.” 

It’s not like John to be this solicitous, Sherlock thinks. He’s still apologising, then. He picks up his knife and fork and surveys his plate. “It looks good,” he says, then goes on, choosing his words carefully. “John – I don’t consider you a guest. As far as I’m concerned, this will always be your home. One of your homes. You don’t have to do anything for the price of being here. Having you here is my… privilege.” He clears his throat and cuts into a sausage, then starts speaking again before it can get awkward. “My brother hasn’t emailed. I trust that means they’ve made no progress on the trace as of yet.” 

“Okay,” John says, sounding studiedly neutral, himself. There’s a small pause and Sherlock has the wit to realise that he has not got away with leaving what he said unaddressed. “That means a lot to me,” John says quietly. “What you just said. In a way, I’ll always consider this home, too.”

Sherlock chances a look at him from beneath his eyelashes. John isn’t smiling, but his eyes are intense in a way that makes Sherlock’s stomach flutter. “Good, then,” he says stiffly, and turns his focus to eating and trying to keep the heat from rising into his cheeks. 

John mercifully drops the subject after that and the conversation turns to Moriarty and the broadcast that took over every network in the United Kingdom the previous day. As soon as they’ve finished eating, Sherlock phones Mycroft, who sends a car to collect them, and they go back to the underground lair to continue looking over every possible clue, every bit of footage recorded, every report filed. In the car on the way over, Sherlock catches John looking at his phone. 

“Any response yet?” he asks, keeping his gaze straight ahead. 

John shakes his head. “It’s a bit odd,” he muses. “Perhaps she’s annoyed with me for not having come home.” He types something, erases it, then types again and presses send before putting his phone away. 

It’s hours before they re-emerge into the sunlight, Mycroft having told them to take a break and go eat something. The afternoon is already drawing to a close. John checks his phone again and frowns, not having heard Sherlock’s question about where they should go to eat. “That’s odd,” he says. 

“What is?” Sherlock asks, knotting his scarf. 

“For some reason, it says my message couldn’t be sent. I sent it before we went underground, though,” John says, his brow creased. “You saw me, right? We were still in the car.” 

“Yes,” Sherlock says. “Why do you suppose that is? Has your phone done this before? Is it a network coverage issue? Have you forgotten to pay the bill?” 

“No, no, and no,” John says, giving the phone a shake. “That’s quite peculiar.” He presses a button (speed dial one, Sherlock notices) and Sherlock’s phone rings immediately. John disconnects. “That’s fine, then. Let me just try Mary.” 

Sherlock watches him dial and listen, and suddenly has a suspicion. He shouldn’t even suggest it, though. 

John waits for a long time, then listens, frowning, and hangs up. “My call could not be completed,” he tells Sherlock, bemused. “What the hell is going on?” 

Sherlock cannot answer this, so he shrugs. “I don’t know. Perhaps you should go home and check on Mary.” 

“I might just do that,” John says. He is obviously agitated and for a moment Sherlock hesitates. Perhaps John wouldn’t want his interference in this area. Still… 

“Would you like me to come?” he offers. “Just – for company?” It sounds like a rather thin excuse, but John nods. 

“Yeah, all right,” he says, distracted and bothered. He raises his arm to hail a taxi and the second one he sees slows at the kerb. 

Neither of them speaks much on the ride out to the suburbs. Sherlock dares not give voice to the idea he’s had, and John is clearly too preoccupied for conversation. They arrive and Sherlock pays and then follows John inside, hearing him call Mary’s name. 

There is no response. Sherlock sees immediately that his suspicion was correct. It likely takes John just as little time to realise, but he searches the flat first before putting it into words. Mary’s laptop, phone, and several articles of clothing are missing. John stands in the middle of the sitting room, looking blank. 

“She’s gone,” he says. 

*** 

Mycroft puts the receiver down on his phone and fixes John with a steely gaze. “Every airport, train station, bus station, and car rental agency in the country are on alert,” he says. “If Mary has been seen leaving the country, we will know where, when, and how soon enough.” 

John gives one of his abrupt nods, his jaw set firmly and unhappily. Sherlock glances at him, then looks at Mycroft. “You’ll let us know if you hear anything,” he says, not meaning it as a request. 

Mycroft accedes graciously enough, inclining his head. “Indeed.” 

Sherlock looks at John again. “Let’s go,” he says shortly. 

Neither Mycroft nor John protest; John turns mutely toward the door and starts for it. However, Mycroft speaks again as John’s hand touches the doorknob. “John.” 

John stops but doesn’t turn. “Yes?”

“I fully expect you to keep me abreast of any further information you may come across,” Mycroft says, a clear note of warning in his voice. 

John does turn now, his eyebrows arching, though the colour in his face is still low – too low, Sherlock thinks. “You’re saying this because you think that I wouldn’t?” It’s a direct challenge, his fists balled at his sides. 

If anything, Mycroft’s brows lift even higher. “Not necessarily,” he says, not as coolly as he might. “However, she is your wife: I understand the manner of… loyalties that one would associate with that fact. If, when your wife is found, there is nothing remiss with her conduct, I give you my word that we will proceed only with your full knowledge and consent. There may even be leeway if there are… anomalies found, shall we say. You have my word on this. But I require yours that you will be open with us about this.” 

Sherlock feels a trifle uncomfortable with Mycroft’s choice of the word _us_ , which pits John against himself and his brother, which is not necessarily the way he would choose to define his own loyalties, however it’s Mary they’re discussing. He and John exchange a look and he finds John’s expression slightly unreadable and decides not to say anything. 

“Fine,” John says stiffly. “You have my word. If I hear anything from Mary or learn anything else, I’ll make sure that you know.” 

_Meaning that he’ll tell me, not Mycroft_ , Sherlock thinks, and knows that Mycroft will have made the same inference. 

“Excellent,” Mycroft says smoothly. “I appreciate that. Good day.” 

John goes without another word and Sherlock follows him out. Once again, it’s already dark and they’re standing on the pavement outside Mycroft’s central office in a bizarre repeat of the previous two days, only now even more has changed. John’s shoulders are hunched, and it’s not all that cold or windy, Sherlock thinks critically. Back at the flat, John didn’t say much, beyond noting aloud which of her possessions Mary had taken with her. Otherwise, he’d pinched the bridge of his nose and said that he supposed they’d better let Mycroft know. Sherlock watches him and wishes he knew what to say. 

“John…” he begins, and John interrupts to hail a taxi. 

“Not here,” he says tersely. 

Sherlock accepts this. A taxi pulls over in front of them. John goes and opens the back door and shoots him an expectant look. Sherlock wasn’t certain that he was invited wherever John is going and is relieved at this. “Where are we going?” he asks, pulling the door closed. He supposes it could still be to separate locations. 

“Are you hungry?” John’s voice is level, directed at the divider in front of him. 

“A bit,” Sherlock says, and waits. 

John leans forward. “Baker Street, corner of Marylebone, please,” he says curtly, and sits back. “Let’s order in. I don’t feel like going out.” 

Sherlock angles his face toward his window. “I don’t blame you,” he says quietly, and John doesn’t respond. Neither of them speaks throughout the rest of the short drive. 

Inside, John says, “Indian all right?” as he takes out his phone to dial. 

“Of course.” Sherlock says brusquely, peeling off his coat and stepping out of his shoes. He goes into the kitchen and makes a show of giving John a wide berth, filling and switching on the kettle and clearing off the table. He’s just wiping it when John speaks, slouched into the back cushions of the sofa. 

“You can say it.” His tone is flat. 

Sherlock stops what he’s doing, feeling the bridge of his nose crease in confusion. “Say what?” 

“You think Mary went off to join Moriarty. Rejoin, rather.” John isn’t looking at him. “Don’t you.”

“Oh,” Sherlock says. “That.” He starts wiping again, weighing his next words. “Well – ”

“It’s all right,” John tells him, looking over now. “I’ve had the same thought. I mean, it’s the only thing that really makes sense, isn’t it?” 

The kettle is boiling, so Sherlock switches it off. He measures out two scoops of loose white tea and one of green, adds five dried jasmine flowers, a few rose petals, and a bit of dried peach, places it in a diffuser, then measures the water temperature. It’s cooled just enough for white tea, so he pours water over the mixture in the teapot and puts the lid on. Carrying it and two china cups over to the coffee table, he puts it all down and places himself gingerly near John. “It is the only theory that makes sense,” he agrees, and hopes that John won’t despise him for agreeing. “I assume she was pleased to reconcile with you on Christmas Day: you were holding her hand when you came to see me off on the tarmac.”

John’s eyes are on his. “Yes. I mean, she was a bit grudging, but on the whole I thought she was pleased. She cried and all that.”

Sherlock puts this thought out of mind at once; the thought of a teary, embracing reunion between John and Mary is not a particularly pleasant one. “And she seemed generally content during the days that followed?” 

“Too content,” John says, looking irritated. “Given that you’d been arrested, I thought she’d have been a little more upset on your behalf, especially given that you’d rid her of the threat of Magnussen and all that.”

“That could also have been relief on her part,” Sherlock points out, tactfully leaving out the part about him. “The point is, she was content enough until the day of learning that Moriarty was still alive. That’s clearly the piece of information that changed things.” 

John is quiet for a moment, his fingers twisting together. 

Sherlock frowns. “What?” he asks. “Have I forgotten something?” 

“No,” John says at once. “I just – I don’t know what I’m talking about, honestly. I mean, that’s one theory, right? That she used to work for Moriarty, and for some reason knowing that he’s alive again has made her panic. Or else, worse, knowing that he’s alive has made her want to go back to working for him. That would be consistent with her background and all that. It’s just – the only other thing that changed noticeably that day was her finding out that you weren’t leaving, after all.”

Sherlock blinks. He picks up the teapot to give himself something to do and fills first John’s cup, then his own. “Meaning… what, precisely?” he asks. 

John is barely audible. “I don’t know. I mean – no, I don’t know. I don’t know anything for sure. But – she didn’t seem that broken up that you were leaving, you know? If we were all supposed to be such good friends, that doesn’t make sense. Plus you’d just done her a huge, huge favour, and you were taking all of the blame for it. She could have seemed – I don’t know, relieved, grateful, worried – any of that. But she just seemed happy to me. Too happy.” 

Sherlock feels wary. “What are you suggesting?” he asks, his nail beds whitening around the rim of his cup. 

John lets out a lot of breath at once and runs his fingers through his hair. “The whole bit where you told me that she saved your life,” he says. “I never bought that, Sherlock. It just doesn’t add up. Nothing about that night did. I did what I thought was the right thing in going back to her, but it was mostly for the baby’s sake. As far as Mary herself goes, I don’t even know exactly how I feel about her. I just thought it was the right thing to do. But I never believed that, about her saving your life. I mean, why would she have shot you instead of Magnussen that night? It doesn’t make sense. The only thing that does make sense to me is that she was… jealous, maybe.”

Sherlock makes himself take a sip of tea. Here it is again: the forbidden subject. “Jealous?” he repeats, careful not to inflect the word one way or another. 

“Yeah – of you and me,” John says, gesturing between them. “Of our friendship. Of how close we’ve always been. Maybe she saw that as a threat, and having a handy excuse to shoot you just came along at a good moment. I know we didn’t really talk about it much when I was here all that time, but I always thought you’d said all that to maybe protect me from her, in case she got really upset with me for leaving her. That’s what I figured, because again, that’s the only thing that makes any sense to me.” 

_Bravo, John,_ Sherlock thinks silently. _Really good work._ He hides his eyes and drinks more of his tea, and John finally picks up his own cup and follows suit. “So you’re proposing that perhaps it has nothing to do with Moriarty and more to do with my unwelcome presence in your lives,” he says. The words are a little stiff, but he knows that John doesn’t share the sentiment or he wouldn’t have disclosed this. 

John still looks apologetic. “It’s a possibility,” he says. “It’s a theory that fits the available facts.”

“But would she really leave you all because your imposing friend has not, in fact, been sent away on a six-month mission?” Sherlock asks, leaving out the adjective _almost certainly terminal_. “I mean, if it was just about your marriage, wouldn’t she have at least left a note?”

“Unfortunately, I agree,” John says, sighing. “If it was just about her and me, then it wouldn’t explain her anger and panic over the Moriarty information at the airfield, either. I suppose that was almost wishful thinking.”

Sherlock considers this. “I think you could have a point about the… other thing,” he says cautiously. He turns his head toward John, but doesn’t look at him all the way. This has to be approached with care. “We _are_ close.”

“Closer than most friends,” John agrees, his eyes on Sherlock’s face. They don’t move when Sherlock raises his to meet John’s gaze. For a moment they just sit there, searching one another’s eyes. Then the doorbell rings.

 _Damn it_ , Sherlock thinks, though he suspects it’s far too soon in any case.

“That’ll be the food,” John says. “I’ll get it.”

“No.” Sherlock is swifter, already on his feet. “I will. You can get out some plates, if you want.”

“Deal.” John gets up and goes to the kitchen as Sherlock makes for the stairs to collect their meal. 

(Just when they were getting so close.) Well: hopefully Mycroft’s field agents will be slow to find Mary. The longer their search takes, the better. 

_Run, Mary, run,_ he thinks with vindictive pleasure as he pays the delivery girl and sprints back up the stairs to where John is waiting. 

*** 

Oddly, very little transpires over the two weeks that follow. There is absolutely no discernable trace of Moriarty uncovered, as though the broadcast simply never took place at all. Mycroft has fired no fewer than five employees, disrupting his yearly average of precisely one. Employees from the various broadcasting networks have been interrogated, security footage has been scrubbed. Whoever was responsible was simply very, very good. No prints were left behind. If employees were bribed, the perpetrator chose people with nerves of steel and no evident moral compass. Sherlock is agitated, though not nearly as much so as Mycroft is – because, dovetailing nicely, there is a corresponding lack of trail of Mary’s disappearance. She has not communicated with John once, and Mycroft’s field agents have proven utterly unable to discover any sign of her. 

Meanwhile, John has not once set foot back in the flat except for a brief stop off to pick up most of the rest of his clothing and the book he was reading. It was a short visit and Sherlock was with him. There were no lovelorn sighs at any of the possessions he shared with Mary, nor did he even glance at their framed wedding picture hung on the sitting room wall. He and Sherlock simply entered, packed up his clothing with efficiency, and departed again in less than a quarter of an hour. He has not said officially that he plans to remain at Baker Street, but the implication has been clear enough so far. 

He seems quite content, in fact, Sherlock has noted. When Mycroft routinely asks about Mary, John has seemed remarkably unemotional, at least after that first day. Sherlock would like to ask, but fears blundering into sensitive area ahead of schedule. Better to let whatever feelings John may be harbouring for Mary fade into obscurity, or let John bring the subject up himself. 

He finally does so that night. Sherlock is just putting the finishing touches on the chicken he has roasted – the skin crisp with fresh lemon juice, surrounded in the pan by roasted potatoes. The salad is already made and sitting in its bowl on the table – young spinach greens tossed with roasted almonds, halved strawberries, and crumbled asiago, drizzled with a maple balsamic vinaigrette. John has opened a bottle of chardonnay and does not yet know that there is a banoffee pie purchased from the bakery down the street sitting in the pantry. “I think we’re ready,” Sherlock tells him, and John closes his laptop and comes over to the table. 

He surveys Sherlock’s offerings with an air of clear satisfaction, sighing contentedly as he sits down. “This looks amazing,” he says. “The chicken has had my stomach rumbling for the past half hour already.” 

Sherlock smiles to himself. “Pour the wine?” is all he says aloud, seating himself and pulling the salad bowl closer to serve John from it. 

John does it readily. “You know,” he says, filling Sherlock’s glass, “maybe I shouldn’t say it, but – I’m not sure that I could go back a second time.” 

Sherlock looks at him sharply across the table. “Go back?” he repeats. “To – ?”

“To Mary,” John says, candid, not trying to shield it. “To the flat. The marriage. All of that. I’m just so damned content to be here, especially after nearly losing you that way. I love this. Being here with you. Just this: eating and working together, even if our case has been rather quiet of late. This is what I really love. It’s not that I didn’t know that when I left, but – and I know it makes me a right arse to admit it, but – I’m not that broken up that Mary’s left me, honestly. Maybe I should be, but it’s easier not to be.” 

Sherlock watches him for a moment, then studiously returns his gaze to the chicken, concentrating on carving it in half. It’s a smallish chicken and they will certainly finish it with ease, so he sets a plump half directly onto John’s plate before scooping crumbling potatoes alongside it and dripping lemony juice over all of it. “What about your child?” 

John sets the wine bottle down and looks at his plate in obvious pleasure. “There is that,” he admits. “But if Mary’s chosen to run off with the baby, what I am supposed to do about it? I mean – I suppose Mycroft will eventually succeed in tracking her down, and then I’ll do everything I need to do. But what if he never finds her? It’s not as though I’d be able to if the bloody MI6 can’t. If she’s left me, then I’d say she doesn’t want me being involved in the child’s life.” 

“But what about _you_ , John?” Sherlock asks, serving himself and fixing John with his eyes. “Don’t you want to be involved?” 

He wants John to say no, but doesn’t expect him to do so. It’s therefore surprising when John shrugs. “Yes and no,” he says. “I hadn’t thought _once_ about wanting to be a father before you told me that Mary was expecting. Never once. I suppose I was happy enough about it, but it’s not something I was actively looking for in my life. It doesn’t really work if I’m here with you, does it? I suppose it would have, with the life I had with Mary, but if that’s gone? I don’t know, Sherlock. I really don’t. And as I said, it would be very hard to give this up a second time. I don’t know. It’s not something I can know the answer to before I know the facts of the actual situation.” 

Sherlock lets it go. “All right,” he says, and drops the subject. He would rather like to know how John feels about Mary, herself, but knows better than to ask. They turn their attention to dinner and John is full of praise and Sherlock is pleased. They strip the chicken to its bones and finish the potatoes, if not the salad. When Sherlock tells John about the pie, John regretfully says that he’s too full and suggests having some later. Sherlock agrees and John tells him not to worry about the cleaning up. 

“I’ll take care of all this,” he says. “You cooked, and it was fantastic. I’ll look after the rest.” 

“All right,” Sherlock says amiably and takes himself to the sitting room and his chair. He reads two comments on his website, then goes to John’s blog to track the IP addresses of the latest commenters there. He sneaks a look at John and checks his facebook for anything from Mary, including in the messages. Nothing there. (Good.) He hastily switches out of this page as John comes over to sit down across from him. 

John picks up his book and reads for a little while, the silence between them companionable and easy. After twenty minutes have passed, John stirs and says, “You know, I feel like going for a walk. Just to stretch my legs, walk off the chicken. What do you think?” 

(Is he being invited along?) Sherlock looks up from his laptop. “Am I coming?” 

“If you like,” John says patiently. “That’s what I was asking, yeah.” 

Sherlock closes the laptop and gets promptly to his feet. “All right. Why not.” He gets his coat and follows John out into the night. Rather than sticking to city streets, John makes for Regent’s Park and the inner loop around the lake. The night is cool but not terribly cold and it occurs to him not for the first time that having John next to him is the best thing he has ever known. He can feel John’s presence tangibly, feel everything that he is – all of that concealed power, the depth of his passions, the strength of his anger, the delight of his sudden laughter, the softness that’s been in his eyes all evening. The comfortable nearness of him as they revolve about one another in the flat, all the details of their trivial domestic life. All that Sherlock had thought he’d lost when John moved out again on Christmas Day. The life he’d thought he’d lost altogether when Mycroft told him soberly that he was going to Serbia and not coming back. There were chances that he might have survived, might have been able to fight his way back to London and to John, but for what? With Mary and the baby around, how much of John would he have even had? If he’d known that this life was still a possibility, however, nothing could have kept him back. Sherlock keeps his eyes on the path before his feet and thinks, _Yes. I would do anything to keep this: this life, with John. Nothing else even matters._

“Penny?” John asks, his voice breaking into Sherlock’s thoughts gently, but it startles him, his thoughts flying everywhere and probably showing far too much on his face. 

He hastily attempts to rearrange his face into something neutral and casts about for something to say. “There aren’t many people here tonight.” (Ugh. Horribly inane.) 

“It is January,” John points out. “But look at all the stars.”

Sherlock tilts his head back and looks up and tries to say something better this time. “They’re beautiful,” he says, and John laughs and shakes his head, his shoulder brushing Sherlock’s arm. Sherlock looks at him, warmth flooding his belly and he forgets about trying to say the right thing and says instead the first thing that comes to his lips. “But then, I always notice beauty more when you’re around.” (Oh, no. That was too much, wasn’t it? Too much, too soon. John hasn’t yet given any indications of specific interest. Can this be salvaged?) Sherlock sees the spoken words hanging there between them like the condensation of his breath, and waits anxiously for John to react. 

The mirth on John’s face fades, but is replaced by something else, something good, Sherlock thinks cautiously. “Sherlock,” he says, his voice a bit rough, and trails off. He leans in, putting a hand on Sherlock’s upper arm, warm even through the thick wool of the Belstaff.

(He hasn’t made everything terribly awkward, then. Maybe things have progressed far enough…) Sherlock finds himself short of breath. John is leaning toward him, his eyes on Sherlock’s mouth. They are going to kiss, Sherlock thinks blurrily, aware that his own face is already angling instinctively down toward John’s, his lips slightly parted. John’s eyes are drifting closed, his face coming nearer. Sherlock’s phone rings and he starts, taken unawares. John stops moving, his eyes opening. (Damn it. Of all times!) Sherlock pulls his phone out, trying not to glare too overtly at it. It’s Mycroft. It’s half ten and it’s Mycroft: something has happened, then. Sherlock experiences a vicious number of profane thoughts simultaneously and answers the call. “What?” he asks crossly. 

“It’s Mary,” Mycroft says without preamble. His words immediately form into ice in the pit of Sherlock’s belly, scattering the warmth that had been building there. He turns his eyes to John’s and sees his own apprehension reflected there, despite not knowing what Mycroft is saying. Mycroft goes on. “We’ve found her.” 

*** 

It’s past five in the morning. They are still sitting in Mycroft’s underground office with their coats on, exactly as they had been in the park more than five hours earlier. John hasn’t spoken in over an hour. Sherlock wishes he knew what John is thinking. Even if Mycroft weren’t in the room, it would be difficult to ask. He wishes he were better at reading John, though what he could even do with the information is beyond him. Would it inform him as to what, if anything, he could do for John just now? He would like to reach out to him, offer the clumsy physical comfort of his arms, of any part of him, but Sherlock senses that John would rather not be touched or spoken to, particularly not by him. 

He wonders if he was correct in thinking that John was very much on the brink of kissing him in the park. He feels moderately certain about this, but he has been wrong before. This is not his area of expertise. (A gross understatement.) He’s been trying not to dwell on it, but it’s been hours with little else to think of. Mary was found in Libya and it’s a long flight. They’ve been waiting in Mycroft’s office since he called, John scowling and fidgeting and otherwise mostly silent. Sherlock steals looks at him when he can and thinks that everything that was drifting up to the surface between them over the past couple of weeks – as well as period before Christmas, when John was at home looking after him – has probably been shattered by the news of Mary’s return. What will John do now? He very carefully avoided mentioning Mary in any way when he said that it would be hard to go back. Will seeing Mary in front of him change that? 

Perhaps it will have something to do with why she left and what she was doing in Libya. John asked, tersely, using as few words as possible, back when they first arrived. Mycroft only shook his head and said that she’d been sighted on a street in downtown Tripoli in a shopping district and that nothing more was known. 

“Your people are sure it’s her?” John asked, and Mycroft nodded. 

“Quite sure, I’m afraid,” he said, then retreated into an antechamber to discuss something with some technicians sitting in front of screens with headsets on. 

Sherlock had managed to ask, more discreetly, if Mary had already been apprehended, and learned that she had been seized the instant her facial features made a match on their programs, snatched off the street and hustled into a government-issue unmarked car for immediate transport back to the UK. “You’ll tell him when she’s on her way here,” Sherlock had said, keeping his voice low. 

Mycroft had glanced over his shoulder to where John was sitting, still in his coat, his shoulders hunched, face turned down toward the floor. “If you like. I imagine he’ll want to speak with her.” 

“In private, most likely,” Sherlock agreed. “Find somewhere secure. I don’t want John at risk.” 

“Duly noted,” Mycroft had said dryly, then nodded toward John. “Stay with him. I don’t want him doing anything… unpredictable.” 

Sherlock hadn’t bothered asking, just went back to John and sat down near him. That was nearly six hours ago now. The flight from Tripoli (private, government jet, of course) should only take around four hours, he thinks. They should be here very soon. “John,” he starts, but doesn’t know what he’s going to say. 

John looks up at him, his eyes taking a moment to focus. He looks lost, Sherlock thinks, and hates this. “Yeah?” 

Mycroft materialises in front of them. “Excuse me,” he says peremptorily. “The vehicle bearing Ms Morstan is on its way. Just letting you know.”

John is on his feet in a second. “I want to see her,” he says, his voice steely. 

Mycroft inclines his head. “Arrangements have been made,” he says smoothly. 

John shakes his head. “No. Outside. I want a word before she gets processed and whatever else. I want to be the first face she sees.” 

Mycroft looks at Sherlock and Sherlock frowns very slightly, in indication not to argue. “Very well,” Mycroft says, just barely managing not to roll his eyes. “As you like. But she is not to be allowed to escape. Is that clear?” 

“She’s not going anywhere,” John vows, and the darkness in his tone makes Sherlock feel uneasy. Is this the anger of a furious lover, scorned and left behind, or is this something else? Is John hurt and betrayed or is he at the last thread of his patience? (He wishes he knew. He wishes he knew how whatever almost happened in the park fits in with all of that. Where he stands.) 

They’re on the pavement when the car arrives. Sherlock sees Mary’s face through the back window, sees her wince when she sees John. She turns to say something to the agent beside her, but whatever it is does not work. She is escorted firmly from the car. The agents get back in, but the car does not move. Sherlock sees Mycroft’s hand at work. “Would you like me to wait inside?” he asks John in an undertone. 

“No,” John says, his eyes on Mary. “I want you to hear whatever she has to say.” He scans her and Mary meets his gaze evenly, though her lips are bunched in an unhappy little rosebud. (Sherlock has eyed those lips, wondered in bitter passing whether his mouth would have been more appealing to John in that shape.) “Well?” John demands to his wife. “Where the hell have you been?” 

Mary makes a sound of impatience. “Tripoli,” she says. Her eyes skate sideways to Sherlock. “Obviously.” 

“Mary – ” John’s voice rises in fury. His fists clench and do not unclench, Sherlock notes. “ _Why_ the hell were you in Libya? Why did you run off? Would you mind telling me what in God’s name is going on?” 

Mary’s face crumples. “You wouldn’t understand,” she tries, and John crosses his arms as though visibly restraining himself from hitting something. 

Sherlock decides to intercede. “Moriarty,” he says, and the single name earns him her wary, suspicious gaze. (Bingo, he thinks.) “You worked for him. Before.” She hesitates and Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Come on, just say it,” he says impatiently. “It’s all going to come out now. So: you heard he was alive, and you left London and went to a country known for terrorist activity. The only question is why: were you going back to him to offer your services again, or were you running from him?” 

Mary looks back and forth between them. John is staring at her, his gaze hard, arms crossed. “The second,” she says, as though she is trying to sound brave. 

“Why.” John sounds so unimpressed that it hardly sounds like a question. 

Mary glances around, her eyes checking places that a camera would be, and lingers when they finds the one over the entrance. “Can we go inside?” she asks, shivering. “It’s January.” 

“Quite a change from Libya. I realise,” John says sarcastically. “But no: we’re going to do this right here, right now. And _then_ we’ll go inside and I’ll tell Mycroft what we’re going to do with you. First I want it straight from your mouth. You worked for Moriarty.” 

Mary’s small mouth quirks with annoyance. “Obviously,” she says again. “On and off, over the years.” Her eyes flick around again, looking for an escape, Sherlock thinks. 

“And?” John is relentless, and Sherlock doesn’t blame him. “Why were you running?” 

“I didn’t want to be – obliged to go back to that,” Mary tries. 

“No.” John rejects this flat-out. “Try again.”

Mary stalls, so Sherlock prompts her. “Was it a question of unfinished business between the two of you?” he asks, curious. 

She hesitates for a split second and John pounces on this. “So it was,” he says. “What business, then?” 

“John – ” she tries, pleading, but John is inexorable. “Fine!” Mary bursts out. “I was hired to kill you, all right? The deal was that if Sherlock was found to be alive, you were supposed to die. That was the arrangement. So once they found out, I was put on the job. And I didn’t do it, obviously. I thought Moriarty was dead, and I didn’t finish the contract.” 

“Wait a second,” John says, frowning. “They knew he was alive? How? From when?” 

Sherlock is curious, too. Mary throws a look of absolute loathing his way and says, “They were following a trail of someone who was solving things too quickly, starting in India and working its way west. They confirmed it was him five months before he returned to London.” 

“Five months…” John says, staring at her. “So – we met specifically because of that. It wasn’t an accident that you were hired at the clinic.” 

“Not even slightly,” Mary informs him coolly. “I was stalking you, getting to know your routines. Working in the clinic was a great way to keep an eye on you, and dating you was even better. I hadn’t been given the green light just yet. And when I was…” She lowers her voice and speaks to her hands – an obvious effort to look humble or contrite or pitiable or something along those lines, Sherlock thinks. “I couldn’t do it,” Mary says to her hands. 

John is still staring at her. “Why not?” he asks, but it’s less rough than it was and Sherlock feels an unpleasant twisting in his abdomen. 

Mary raises her eyes to his, open and very blue. “Because I had fallen in love with you,” she says. Ignoring Sherlock, she searches his eyes. “That’s the truth, John.” Her voice is quiet and very persuasive – dangerously so. “I know – I know I’ve lied about a lot of things, but that’s the truth. I couldn’t fulfill my contract because I’d fallen in love with my target. I was so relieved to know that Moriarty was dead, because it meant I got to leave all that behind and have the life I wanted – a life with you.” 

John’s voice is lower when he speaks, but Sherlock is glad to see the hardness still there in his eyes. “You shot Sherlock,” he says. “You didn’t leave it behind.”

Mary bites her lip and avoids Sherlock’s face. “I made a mistake, all right?” she says, her voice still low. “I’m sorry, John. I – ”

“When are you going to tell John that you’re not pregnant?” Sherlock interrupts her, looking pointedly at her belly. He understands now why Mycroft didn’t show them the photos taken in Tripoli. 

John inhales sharply and looks at Sherlock. “What?” He looks at Mary, his eyes going to her belly, too. “Oh my God. Jesus, Mary! Is he – are you – ”

Mary glares daggers at Sherlock. “Thank you _very_ much for letting me tell that in my own time, my own way,” she snaps. 

Sherlock couldn’t feel more smug about this if he tried. “Pleasure,” he says snidely. “I thought he had the right to know, now that it’s rather apparent. I suppose it’s bulky, travelling with a fake belly on. Security questions would be so awkward. I, unlike you, feel that John has the right to know the truth about rather more than you do – ”

His words are cut off by the sharp sound of a gunshot. Even as he reacts, throwing his arms up over his face and head, Sherlock hears John cry out, then looks and sees him dropping to the pavement. He hears both his own voice and Mary’s saying John’s name, then something pricks him in the back of the neck and everything goes dark. 

*** 

When Sherlock wakes, he is in darkness. His first thought is of John. John was shot. Where is he? Despite the grogginess of his head, he looks around wildly and sees with relief that John is lying next to him on a cold concrete floor. He is asleep, as is Mary on his other side. Sherlock glances around the room. It is mostly underground, with only a thin strip of light coming in a high, very narrow window. Too narrow to fit through, even if they could reach it – the walls are at least ten metres high. The light outside is grey and overcast, making it difficult to tell the time. 

Never mind that. Sherlock spends less than two seconds on these observations before turning his attention back to John. He’s been shot in the leg; blood has already pooled in a wide arc around it, the leg of John’s jeans soaked through and sticky to Sherlock’s ginger touch. “John.” He shakes John gently. “John, wake up!” 

Mary stirs before John does, blinking blearily and squinting up toward the window before glancing over at Sherlock. She seems to comprehend the situation fairly quickly. “Oh God,” she says, staring at the blood. “He’s been shot!”

“I can see that!” Sherlock snaps, struggling out of his coat, fleetingly grateful that their hands haven’t been bound. His fingers are a bit sluggish, fumbling with the buttons of his shirt. “John,” he repeats, ignoring Mary and shaking John by the arm. “John, please. You’ve got to wake up.” 

John blinks and then moans, his legs moving feebly, his left hand opening and closing. 

“Don’t move,” Sherlock says immediately, getting his shirt off at last and ripping it apart, trying to make strips. “You’ve been shot.” 

“Nice, Sherlock,” Mary says sarcastically, over John’s prone form. “Way to break it to him gently.” 

“Shut up,” Sherlock says angrily. “How long were we out? He’s lost a lot of blood!” 

“Check your phone,” Mary returns, angry. “Your precious brother’s agents took the one I had!” 

Sherlock grits his teeth and kneels over John, pulling up the right leg of his jeans. John cries out and tries to push his hands away but Mary catches the right one and holds it, which doesn’t improve Sherlock’s mood. She murmurs things to him about staying still and Sherlock does his best to ignore it while binding John’s leg. “Just a little longer,” he mutters, wishing that Mary weren’t there. “I’ve almost finished. Hold still.” They aren’t the words he wants to say, but _Don’t you dare die on me/I want to hold you forever/I would have taken the bullet for you if I’d seen it coming/I love you_ aren’t precisely things one can say in front of Mary. He knots the last of the strips and sits back on his heels, only then checking the time by the watch on John’s left wrist. “It’s nearly ten in the morning,” he says. “We were out for a couple of hours at least.” He pulls his coat back on, covering his bare torso. 

Mary’s eyes meet his, sincere for once. “For God’s sake,” she says bitterly. “He could have died from the blood loss.” 

“‘He’ is not dead,” John says, his voice weak, both eyes open but drooping at the corners, the aftermath of whatever they were drugged with still coursing through his veins. “So please stop talking about him as if he weren’t there.” 

“Sorry darling,” Mary says swiftly, before Sherlock can say anything. “Tactless.” She throws a vicious look at Sherlock. 

Sherlock wants to scream. Trying not to clench his jaw (and still holding John’s left wrist), he asks, “How do you feel?” 

“It hurts,” John admits, grimacing. “Can you help me sit up?” 

Both Sherlock and Mary move to do so, glaring daggers at each other across John’s body. “He asked _me_ , Sherlock,” Mary snipes. 

“No, I asked Sherlock,” John corrects her, his words overlapping with the beginning of Sherlock’s snarled response. “I don’t honestly care. I just want to be sitting up.” They get him arranged and John peers down at his own leg. “Christ. You did well, though, Sherlock. Good binding job.” Then he adds stiffly, without looking at Mary, “You could have helped him. You’re the one who’s supposed to be a nurse, though I suppose that was a lie, too. Sherlock probably does know more about anatomy and emergency medical procedure than you do, after all.” 

Sherlock’s spirits lift slightly at this, but he presses back to the point. “Look,” he says. “You’ve been shot, and obviously the three of us have been abducted. You’re in no condition to walk.”

“No,” John agrees, wincing as he reaches down and adjusts the position of his right leg with his hands. “Exactly. We don’t have much to go on, either. It’s a little too dark to see where we are and I don’t think that either of you should go wandering off. And maybe this will seem a bit off-topic, but – frankly, I could do with some time to figure out what exactly is going on.” 

“With – what, John?” Mary asks, giving him a quizzical look. “We’re in some room underground. We were drugged. You were shot. That’s all any of us really knows, unless Sherlock has some invaluable, _brilliant_ deductions to make about the type of concrete that was poured when they built this place or something along those lines.” 

“That will do,” John says, an edge to his voice. “No, what I mean is, the three of us.”

Neither Sherlock nor Mary responds immediately. Then Sherlock asks, cautious, “What do you mean, exactly?” 

John turns his head to look at him, his eyes pained but his gaze direct and unwavering. “You know exactly what I mean,” he says. He turns his head so that he’s looking straight ahead again. “I think we just need to clear the air and get everything out in the open and figure out what’s what. If we’re all on the same team after all, and what our relationships are. All of that.” 

There’s another pause. Sherlock feels the enormity of what John’s just said twofold: first, it is immensely worrying that anything still has to be discussed about Mary, yet it’s also heartening that there may be enough between the two of them to warrant discussion. “All right,” he says carefully. 

“That’s not really a conversation I think we need to have in front of Sherlock, is it, darling?” Mary asks, lowering her voice intimately, as though already trying to shut Sherlock out of the proceedings. 

“I don’t care,” John says stubbornly. “You both have a right to know where I am on all of that, and I can’t know until I’ve got some answers from both of you. So let’s talk. And then I’ll tell you what we’re going to do: we’re going to work together like the adults that we are. You two are more than usually bright and I’m not completely useless either – though with my leg, that’s another story. We’ll use this time to get ourselves sorted and then we’re going to get out of here and go whichever ways we’re going to go, whether that’s together or separately or what.” 

Sherlock tightens his fingers around John’s wrist in silent acquiescence, then lets go. “How do you want to start?” he asks quietly. Mary is silent on John’s other side. 

John turns his head to look at his wife. “Mary,” he says slowly. “I have a lot of questions. I have so many, it’s hard to even know where to start.” 

Mary looks into his eyes, her lips pursing unhappily, then nods. “That’s fair,” she says, looking down and away. 

“Yes,” John says. “I know it is.” He sighs. “When did you first start stalking me as a target?” 

“Two weeks before your clinic hired me,” Mary says evenly. 

“Do you have any real medical training, or was that all a front?” John asks. His head is leaning wearily back against the wall behind him, and he isn’t looking at her. 

Mary is quiet. “No, I have – some training. It isn’t – I never had a chance to finish it. But I knew what I was doing. For the most part.” 

John nods as though this makes sense of certain things. “So for the procedures you didn’t know, you either fobbed them off on Allison or blundered through them on your own. You subjected my patients to that.” 

“They were fine,” Mary says, shrugging this off. “It was never anything life-threatening or dangerous.” 

“Mary – ” John’s voice is sharp. “I swore an _oath_ , and you’ve undermined it over and over again. Do you not realise that most people take these things seriously?” 

She flares. “It wasn’t that I didn’t take it seriously, John! I told you, I have _some_ training, and I never endangered anyone, if that’s what you’re worried about!”

John turns his head and looks at her now. “You never endangered anyone?” he repeats. “What about when you killed them and collected a bounty for it, hmm? What about then?” 

Sherlock has the wit to stay very still, hardly breathing. John is furious, his anger spiking out on all sides like heat. Dangerous choice of territory to defend, he thinks rudely at Mary: getting into a discussion of the Hippocratic Oath with a doctor from the standpoint of an assassin. He rather likes the way this is going but doesn’t dare hope yet that it will end favourably for him. 

Mary is struggling not to cry. “I always knew you wouldn’t understand my history,” she says, locking her arms around her knees. She sounds both defensive and despairing. “That’s why I never told you. I knew you could never love the real me. I was prepared to just – protect you from the truth about me. I knew it would hurt you to know. I knew that you wouldn’t love me if you did.” 

John is still looking at her. “But you genuinely fell in love with me,” he says, his voice gentler again, and Sherlock inwardly curses Mary’s tears and contrived fragility. 

Mary nods, wiping her eyes. “I’ve loved you since we first met,” she sobs. “I tried so hard not to. You were supposed to be a job, but I’d already been interested in you since the first time I saw you, and I’ve loved you ever since!”

“When was that, precisely?” Sherlock interrupts before any teary embraces can happen, his own knees drawn up to his chest. “When was the first time you ever saw John?” 

John looks swiftly at him, his face unreadable, then echoes the question to Mary. “Yeah. When was that?” 

“It wasn’t two weeks before the clinic hired her, I’d wager,” Sherlock says, trying to sound bored. He examines his fingernails, then shoots a cool look at Mary. “Unless I’m wrong, of course.” 

“No lies,” John says, the hard edge coming back into his voice. “When did you see me for the first time?” 

Mary hesitates, and Sherlock senses her trap. “Was it the pool?” he suggests, as though trying to be helpful. “There was more than one sniper there, as I recall.”

John looks at him again. “Was there?” he asks. 

Sherlock nods. “There were too many lasers. Mycroft and I always had Colonel Moran in mind, but there has to have been another shooter.” He indicates Mary with his chin. “And you have… suspiciously good aim, shall we say.” 

The look on Mary’s face could curdle milk. “Again, thank you for letting me tell things in my own time, Sherlock,” she spits. 

Sherlock cuts her off, raising a finger. “If I had, you wouldn’t have mentioned it, would you. So: tell John that you first saw him through a rifle scope, prepared to shoot into the bomb jacket he’d been strapped into by your boss.” 

John looks at her. “Is that true?” he asks. Mary looks down for a long moment, then nods, silent. “The man who made our lives miserable for two years, on and off,” he says. “You worked for him. You would have shot me that day.” 

Mary raises her head, tears shining in her eyes, but they’re cold. “Of course I would have,” she says. “Just as you would have if you’d been ordered to kill someone on orders in the military. It’s the same thing.” 

“No, it isn’t!” John says loudly. “Is that what you’ve been telling yourself all along? That you kill people for queen and country, or whatever they have wherever you actually come from? First off, I was a _doctor_ , and we were mostly trying to suppress border skirmishes between the tribes, Mary – not killing for personal gain! I was in Afghanistan trying to save lives. Everything you stand for is the opposite of what I stand for.” He stops for a moment, letting his words sink in, then adds quietly, “And you lied to me about the baby. You lied about being pregnant.”

Mary puts her face into her hands and begins to cry again, her elbows resting on her knees. Her mascara is running, leaving blackish tracks down her cheeks. Sherlock watches John watching her, and sees a trace of compassion on his face. “You were having doubts about the wedding,” Mary says dully into her hands. “Even on the day itself, I felt it. I just – the only thing I’ve wanted, since the day we met, was you. I would have done anything to make you love me.”

“Clearly,” John says dryly. “And that’s just the problem, Mary. You can’t make people love you. You can’t buy it with lies and ensure it through murder. You tried to kill Sherlock. Admit it.” 

“I called the ambulance,” Mary says, lowering her hands to look into John’s eyes. “Doesn’t that count for anything to you?” 

“He wouldn’t have _needed_ an ambulance if you hadn’t shot him!” John says, sounding incredulous. “Jesus, Mary!” 

This gets her angry again. “Who would you rather be with, then?” Mary snaps. “ _Him?_ You really must have got delusional if you think that’s ever going to work!” 

John shakes his head, looking down at his legs again. “I don’t want to hear what you have to say about that. That’s for me to decide. For us to discuss – him and me.” 

Sherlock feels enormously apprehensive. It’s his turn to be put on the spot, and with Mary present, he isn’t looking forward to it. Better just to get it over with, though. “Do you have questions for me?” he asks, the words coming out jerkily. 

John turns his head and looks at him for a long moment. Sherlock finds himself incapable of looking away, despite feeling laid completely bare under the heat of John’s gaze. Then John shakes his head. “Just one,” he says. “You told me everything I needed to know the night that Mary ran away. So there’s only one thing left to ask.” 

“All right,” Sherlock says, unable to breathe. His heart is doing peculiar things in his chest. “What is it?” 

John’s eyes don’t change or soften. His voice is very sober. “Do you love me?” he asks. “That’s a serious question, Sherlock. I need to know – for real. I’m asking because I don’t know and – yeah. I need to.” 

Sherlock feels pinned to a board like a beetle. Finally, the great moment he’s imagined, where John actually does want to know how he feels, and it’s happening like this: in a dark, dank basement of some sort, where they’ve been drugged and abducted, with John’s bloody wife present. Before he can answer, Mary decides to chip in. 

“If you think he’s actually capable of love, you’re a greater fool than I thought, John,” she says, managing to make it sound both sarcastic and bitter. 

“Shut up,” John says, not taking his eyes from Sherlock’s, still waiting. 

“I’m serious, John. If that’s what you’re throwing away our marriage for – ”

“Mary, shut up, and stay shut up!” John says angrily over his shoulder. “I mean it!” He turns back to Sherlock, his face calm, the corners of his lips set firmly, but there’s a sort of appeal in his eyes that Sherlock finds reassuring for reasons he cannot identify. 

He takes a deep breath and looks into those dark-blue eyes and tries to ignore Mary as much as he possibly can. He nods. “I do,” he says, his voice low. “I – I’ve loved you for a long time, John. I didn’t want to tell you before it was time. It seemed too soon, but – ”

John’s eyes are searching his. “But you were working up to it, weren’t you?” he asks, his voice softer than it was. 

Sherlock nods again. “It seemed rather – opportunistic, moving so quickly when we didn’t even know where Mary was, or what you…” He trails off and tries again. “But in the park last night… I thought we…” He stops again, too aware of Mary’s presence. 

John’s eyes don’t move, though. “What did you think?” he asks quietly. 

Sherlock clears his throat. “I – rather thought that we were… about to kiss,” he says, wincing internally. 

“ _What?_ ” Mary demands from John’s other side. “Seriously, John?!” 

John ignores her this time. “Yeah,” he says, keeping his voice down. “I thought so, too. Did you want that?” 

Sherlock nods. “Very much so,” he says, managing to get the words out. 

“I wasn’t even sure if you – did stuff like that,” John tells him. 

Sherlock puts his hand on John’s wrist again, too low for Mary to see. “With you, I… would,” he says, his voice nearly inaudible. “With you, I want to.”

“Have you ever even _had_ sex, Sherlock?” Mary asks, very sarcastically, not bothering with euphemisms or tact. 

Sherlock hates her and wants to close his eyes, but John is still looking at him, and quirks his brows as though echoing the question. “No,” Sherlock says, very stiffly. “Not – as such.” 

“And that means, what, _precisely?_ ” Mary asks snidely, turning his words back on him. 

Sherlock looks down. “Not at all,” he says to the floor, letting go of John’s wrist and simultaneously wanting to die of humiliation and to strangle Mary. 

But John’s voice is warm. “Hey,” he says, his voice low and intimate, and he reaches for Sherlock’s hand and takes it. “I don’t care about that. It’s fine. What matters to me is knowing that you really do love me.” 

“I do,” Sherlock tells him again, more firmly this time. He squeezes his hand around John’s, trying to convey his sincerity. “I really do, John.” Damn Mary and her suggestions of his lack of ‘capability’, as though he is somehow less than human or something. 

John smiles, though, warmth breaking out over his face even through the mask of pain. “Then I know what I want,” he says, and doesn’t let go of Sherlock’s hand. 

Sherlock’s entire torso glows with warmth. He opens his mouth to speak, but Mary interrupts. 

“Right, then, so I’m dismissed, am I?” she asks furiously, her eyes wet again. “Good thing we’re not all trapped together down here or anything!” 

John closes his eyes briefly. Without letting go of Sherlock’s hand, he turns back to look at Mary, shifting his weight and wincing in pain. “Mary, I meant it when I said I wanted us to work together,” he tells her, his voice gentler than it could be. “I’m sorry about our marriage. I don’t think it ever could have worked once the truth came out and I think you know that. But I’m willing to let bygones be bygones. We don’t need to make this any more painful than it is. I’d like us to work together to help each other. I’ll say whatever needs to be said to Mycroft so that you’re not prosecuted for your past. I’m willing to do that for you. Sherlock has already not pressed charges for when you shot him, and he’s dealt with Magnussen for you, so you can have a clean slate, start over again. We can have a clean, amicable break. That’s what I’d like, at least. If you’re willing.” 

Mary doesn’t say anything for a few moments, weighing John’s words in her head and sniffing, wiping her eyes and cheeks. “Fine,” she says eventually, the word bitter. “If that’s the most you’re willing to give me, then I don’t have much choice anyway, do I?” 

John’s voice hardens. “It could be a good deal worse,” he reminds her. “Neither Sherlock or I owe you a thing. Not after everything you’ve done to us. Christ, Mary – if Mycroft hadn’t caught you, you would have let me think I had a child out in the world somewhere that I was permanently estranged from! What kind of person does that to someone else? You didn’t even leave a note – you just panicked and ran!” 

Mary’s sniffling quietens. “Fine,” she says again, after a moment or two. It’s less defiant this time. “Then let’s work together.” 

“Deal,” John says. He looks at Sherlock. “That sound all right to you?” His fingers tighten just perceptibly and Sherlock thinks that he would probably agree to absolutely anything at the moment. 

“Of course,” he says, and has to clear his throat again. 

John smiles at him, a smile that’s so full of promise that it makes Sherlock feel dizzy. “Great,” he says. “So – any ideas?” 

“It’s too dark to even tell how big the room is,” Mary says. “I can go and have a look, if you want.” 

John studies her for a moment. “All right,” he says. “Don’t go too far, though. It could be a set-up.” 

Mary favours him with an unimpressed look. “I know that,” she says flatly, and gets up. 

Sherlock counts her footsteps after she disappears into the gloom. They stop when he reaches thirty-four, then move around in smaller steps, exploring. There’s a long pause, perhaps five or six minutes. “Do you want me to go and check on her?” he asks John, keeping his voice down. 

“No,” John says. “I don’t trust her alone with you. And I also don’t want to be left alone, with my leg…”

“Of course,” Sherlock says, comprehending immediately. “I won’t leave you.” 

John squeezes his hand again, opening his mouth, but then Mary’s footsteps start up again, turning and coming back. She reappears and comes back to sit down where she was again. “Well?” John asks. “What did you find out? What’s out there?” 

“There’s a door,” Mary says, “but it’s locked. Magnetic, I think. There’s also a physical lock but the magnetic one would probably override it, unless it’s not on. There’s a button you push to get the door to release, but the power’s been shut off, I think.”

“Which means that the magnetic lock would also be shut off,” Sherlock points out. 

“I suppose so,” Mary says coolly. “If you have a pin or something, we could try picking the lock. The question would then be where the door leads and what could be waiting on the other side. They drugged us but they didn’t bind our hands. Having nothing but a door as the only means in or out of the room, protected only by a physical lock seems a little too easy, don’t you think?” 

“Perhaps,” Sherlock allows, not saying that he’d already presumed that it’s a trap. 

“Mary,” John says, “who do you suppose shot me? Would you say it was Moriarty?” 

“No,” she responds. Her eyes go to the window again, reassessing its potential as an escape route, Sherlock thinks. “I would assume it was Sebastian Moran.”

“Sniper in the Indian Army,” Sherlock tells John. “Moriarty’s right-hand man, as far as is known, at least.”

“Is this the same person as Lord Moran, with the bombing?” John asks, confused. 

“Not connected at all. An unfortunately common name, nothing more,” Sherlock says. 

“He’s very good,” Mary says, sounding bored. 

“So why’d he shoot me?” John asks. 

Mary glances at Sherlock over him. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I suspect it was a distraction.”

“A distraction?” John repeats. “What do you – ”

“I mean, that of the three of us, you’re the least important, at least to Moriarty,” Mary tells him, a slice of contempt to her tone. “You’re collateral damage. They could risk your life if it meant distracting Sherlock and I long enough for them to drug and abduct us.” 

John sighs. “Fantastic,” he grumbles. “I love being nothing more than collateral damage.”

“You’re not,” Sherlock says shortly. “In a sense you’re the most important person here, because you’re the most – cared about.” 

A brief silence follows this. Even Mary doesn’t contradict him. John looks at him for a long moment, swallowing, his beautiful eyes bracketed with emotion. “Thanks for that,” he says gruffly, and Sherlock hears the sincerity behind it. He doesn’t know what to say, so he tightens his fingers in John’s instead. 

Mary pulls out a package of some sort. “Mint?” she offers. “I’m thirsty, and it staves it off a bit.” 

“Sure,” John says, and takes one. He offers the box to Sherlock, who shrugs and takes one, too. 

Neither of them has time to protest before sleep washes over them both. 

*** 

When they wake, they are alone. Sherlock wakes first again, lifting his head from where it’s slumped against John’s. The room is darker but the space to John’s right is empty, and he knows instinctively that Mary is gone. “John,” he says. Their hands are still touching, if not holding. He puts his left hand on John’s knee and shakes him. “John. Wake up.” 

John blinks and stirs. “Whhat?” he says thickly. “Where – ” He looks around, waking visibly. “What happened?” he asks, sounding more alert already. “Where’s Mary?” 

“I suspect those two questions are linked,” Sherlock says wryly. “The mints. I can’t believe I didn’t wait for her to take one first! How incredibly stupid of us. She drugged us.” He checks his phone. The battery is at forty-eight percent. “It’s two-twenty. We’ve been out for something like four hours. That’s quite the head start.”

“She escaped,” John says, sounding disgusted. “After agreeing to work with us.”

“We were tired,” Sherlock says, still cursing himself inwardly. “We didn’t sleep last night. And we were already drugged once today.” 

“I suppose it could be worse,” John says, sounding disgusted. “She could have poisoned us outright. I’m almost surprised she didn’t.”

“True,” Sherlock agrees, not wanting to say that the thought had already occurred to him.

John goes quiet, thinking. “So she’s left us to our fate,” he says. “Then we know exactly where she’s gone. Or perhaps not _where_ in terms of a physical location, but – ” He turns to Sherlock. 

Sherlock meets his eyes, just visible in the dark of the room. “Tell me what you’re thinking.” 

“She’s gone to Moriarty, of course,” John says. “It’s the only thing that makes sense. Once she knew that I wasn’t going to go back to her, she decided to turn on us. She could have taken the out I offered her and turned a new leaf. Started over. But instead she’s gone to the other side.”

“She may not trust either of us, or Mycroft,” Sherlock points out. “Without you on her side, her last ally on this side of the table was gone. I’ll tell you something, though: I don’t think that Moriarty _is_ still alive, after all. This doesn’t have his feel. It’s too heavy-handed.” 

John meets his eyes again. “Moran, then?” he asks, and Sherlock nods. John makes a thinking sound. “Then she’s going back to a rival rather than a protector,” he says. “Ha! I wonder if she thinks he’ll have pity on her and take her in?” 

“It’s doubtful,” Sherlock says. His thoughts aren’t entirely on their present situation. “Either way, two things are certain: first, that if Mary escaped, there is indeed a way out. Second, when we leave, we’ll almost certainly be walking into a trap.” 

“And we’ll be slowed down by me,” John says, grimacing. “So what do we do?” 

“It seems moderately immaterial to me,” Sherlock admits. “We’re unarmed. Either they come for us, or they know how long Mary’s mints last in terms of our having been knocked out and they’re waiting now. I have no signal on my phone; we’re too deep underground. We don’t know what’s out there. Who’s waiting, what we’ll be facing, and knowing wouldn’t help, anyway: we have nothing.” 

“Then I don’t want to leave yet,” John says firmly. “There’s something else I need to do before we walk unarmed into a fire fight. Something that can’t wait a minute longer.” 

Sherlock looks at him. Their shoulders are touching against the hard breezeblock wall. “What’s that?” he asks, though he thinks – hopes – he may have an idea. 

John leans over and puts a hand on his face. “I need to kiss you,” he says, his voice rough, and Sherlock only has time to inhale, relieved and desperate at the same time, and then John’s mouth is on his, at last, at _last_. Sherlock gets a hand on the back of John’s neck and seals their mouths together firmly, kissing John with all his strength. John’s lips are opening under his and Sherlock thinks, _yes, oh God, please_ and follows suit, their tongues touching and then pressing together. John takes his hand from Sherlock’s face and puts both arms around him and somehow Sherlock gets his other arm behind John’s back, leaning over him. It’s the first time he’s ever felt anyone’s tongue against his own, the first time he’s ever kissed anyone that he felt this way about, because there was never anyone else besides John. He feels as though he is gasping into John’s mouth, shuddering with waves of emotion rolling over him and drowning them both in embarrassing profusion, but John doesn’t seem bothered in the slightest. When they finally break apart, John doesn’t let him go at all. “I’m so sorry for putting you through all that in front of Mary,” he says, his eyes overflowing with Johnness. “And for not having told you sooner how I felt. I thought it was all going to happen last night, before Mycroft’s call came through. I love you, too. I’ve known since – for ages, honestly. Since before you went away. And again since you were shot. Maybe even before that. I don’t know. I never really stopped, you know. I love you. And I can’t believe you really – ”

“Believe it,” Sherlock tells him, his head swimming in dizzying emotion. “I do. I can, and I do.” 

“I do believe it,” John murmurs, and they kiss again and it goes on for ages and Sherlock thinks that he could just about die happily now. It’s incredible – it feels precisely as he always tried not to imagine it would, only it’s far, far better, too. John’s presence is thick about him, surrounding him and holding him and consuming him all at once. His hand is inside Sherlock’s coat now, caressing his bare chest. John turns his mouth into Sherlock’s neck and kisses his throat, his lips and tongue stroking over the sensitive skin there. 

Sherlock thinks in passing that perhaps they should be focusing more on their escape plan but he honestly doesn’t care at the moment. This is the only thing he wants. Just John, nothing else. “John…” The name slips from his lips before he can prevent it, almost more of an incantation than anything else. He could say it a thousand times and never get tired of it, he thinks. He says it again. “John… John… ”

“Yes,” John murmurs into his throat. “I’m here.” He reaches up for Sherlock’s face and kisses him with something akin to violence. He is moaning into Sherlock’s mouth and Sherlock’s body is tingling with awareness of it, of John, of his proximity. He takes one of John’s hands and moves it back to his chest, keeping his hand over it, and John breaks off the kiss, looking down at their hands. He looks back up at Sherlock, his eyes dark in the dim light. “Yeah?” he asks, his voice low, breathing faster already. “You want me to – ”

It seems important to do this, make a clear statement that he _is_ interested in this sort of thing, with John. “Yes,” Sherlock says, his voice coming out in a lower register than he intended. “Touch me. Please.”

“Sherlock – ” John is kissing him again, even harder than before, his palm stroking Sherlock’s chest, his thumb rubbing into a nipple and pressing, then pushing the Belstaff off Sherlock’s shoulders. He bites at Sherlock’s lips and chin and throat, then murmurs into his skin, “You can touch, too, if you want. I’m dying for that. But only if you want to.” 

Sherlock had no idea that John wanted this so badly, and the knowledge is thrilling. “Your leg – ” he starts, but John brushes this aside. 

“You don’t need legs for sex,” he says, the words completely unvarnished and plain. “And if there’s a good chance that we’re going to die trying to get out of this, then we need this. We need to do this now, because there might never be another chance and we’ve already waited so long. Though if we do get out – I swear to God, Sherlock, I will make you feel so good! I want to show you everything, discover it with you. We’ll stay up all night and try everything in the book. But for right now, let’s just do what we can.” 

“Okay,” Sherlock says, so aroused that he can barely form words. “What – what do you want to do?” 

“Come here,” John says, his eyelids drifting half closed, his lips hovering over Sherlock’s. “I’ll show you.” He reaches for Sherlock and pulls him close, his hands stroking down Sherlock’s arms and sides. They’re kissing hungrily and Sherlock claws at the buttons of John’s shirt and helping him out of it. John rubs over the front of Sherlock’s trousers next and Sherlock gasps as though the touch electrocuted him. “I’m sorry,” John says against his lips, then pulls away to look him in the eye. “Is that – okay?” 

Sherlock nods frantically. “Very okay. I just – I’ve never – ”

“I know,” John says gently. “If there’s anything you don’t – you know you just have to say the word, right? We don’t have to do anything.”

“No, I want this,” Sherlock insists. “Do you know how long I’ve – please, John, just – ”

“Okay,” John says, nodding rapidly. “Okay. Yeah. Definitely, then.” He puts his mouth on Sherlock’s again, kissing him slower than before, with enough passionate to make Sherlock’s knees collapse if he weren’t already sitting down. 

He’s harder than a rod in his trousers and when John cups it with his hand again, Sherlock groans uncontrollably, pushing himself against the touch, craving the pressure, craving friction. His right arm is around John’s shoulders, the left exploring the planes of John’s chest, now dropping into John’s lap. The angle is awkward for his wrist, but John moans into his mouth, his hips bucking upward when Sherlock touches him through his jeans. “Can I – ?” he asks, going for the button. 

“God, yes!” John is unreservedly enthusiastic. “Please!” 

Sherlock smiles and uses both hands to unzip John’s jeans, shuffling them down under his arse to around his thighs and touching his erection through his underwear. John’s hand has fought its way in through the zip of his trousers, skipping the button entirely and is working into his underwear in turn. The oxygen in his lungs vanishes into a vacuum when John’s hand closes around his erection, and as he does the same, John groans again. They bite at each other’s mouths as they touch one another, breathing hard and moaning in tandem. 

John pulls him even closer. “Come here,” he says vaguely, but his hands communicate more, tugging Sherlock onto his lap, straddling it, and Sherlock understands and presses himself up against John, their hands and penises meeting. John’s hips are lifting and twisting beneath him, grinding against him. Sherlock puts an arm around his back, the fingers of his left hand tangling with John’s as they hold their erections side by side and thrust together. 

It feels better than anything he’s imagined, far better than touching himself, and far more dangerous – Sherlock feels as though he could come apart entirely at the seams when the crescendo reaches its peak, as it inevitably will. He only hopes that it’s not too soon, that it won’t disappoint John when it does. The sensation is snaking through his body like liquid silver, electrifying every cell within him. There is a wetness in their joint hands and he doesn’t know whether it came from him or John. They’ve established a rhythm, Sherlock rocking and thrusting against John as John moves to meet him. He shifts his free hand to Sherlock’s arse and Sherlock moans loudly, embarrassingly so, but he’s too far gone to really care. He would somewhat prefer for John to be the one on top, taking the lead, but he’s leading regardless, guiding Sherlock’s clumsy, unrefined movements with sounds and the occasional word, his hands showing Sherlock, feeding into the raw want that’s driving him. The pleasure is so intense now that Sherlock is panting without restraint into John’s jaw, unable to pace himself or slow his motions, but it seems that it’s fine, because John’s voice is higher and breathy, his sounds more and more urgent, and then it happens – Sherlock’s entire body spasms, pleasure corroding his internal organs and his very skin, a wet rush of it erupting out of him, volcanic and unstoppable. Through the rushing in his ears he hears John’s voice cry out once, his body jerking against Sherlock’s as warmth bursts out of him in pulses onto their tangled fingers. 

Sherlock collapses forward, putting his arms around John’s shoulders loosely and panting into his hair, the shock waves of his orgasm completely unprecedented in his experience. He feels simultaneously exhilarated and exhausted, and closer to John than he’d known it was possible to feel to someone else. He wants to burrow into John’s skin and plant himself there and never emerge again. John’s hands are stroking loosely over his bare back, his fingers managing to convey more than Sherlock could ever put into words. “I love you,” Sherlock mumbles into John’s hair, and it still feels awkward and unpractised and strange, but John’s arms tighten around him. 

“I love you, too,” he says, pressing his lips into Sherlock’s temple and kissing it. “So much. If it hadn’t been for the baby – Mary was right, you know. I had doubts all along. Even before you came back. This is all I really wanted. I couldn’t – but now – yeah. We’re fine now, aren’t we?” 

“You’re sure you want this?” Sherlock asks, though his arms haven’t loosened their grip on John. “Was that – just now, was it – ”

“Yes,” John says, very firmly. “That was fucking amazing. We _are_ going to make it out of here. Somehow. We will, because that needs to happen again. I want to do some version of that every day for the foreseeable future.” He pulls his face back to look at Sherlock. “Deal?” 

Sherlock looks at him in frank wonder. “You _are_ certain,” he says, hardly daring to believe it. “It’s so soon – ”

“No, it isn’t,” John interrupts, contradicting him. “It’s been years. It’s about bloody time, is what it is.” 

Sherlock studies at him for a long time, then finally, he smiles. “When you put it that way, then,” he concedes. 

John smiles back, his eyes dark in the gloom. “Kiss me,” he orders, and Sherlock doesn’t argue. 

*** 

They pull themselves together eventually, cleaning themselves up as best as they can. Sherlock checks the binding job on John’s leg, the strips of his shirt soaked with blood. “How is it?” he asks, more worried than he wants to let on. 

“It hurts,” John admits. “I’m not sure I’ll be any use on my feet at all. It’s hardly going to get any better without something to control the pain anyway, though, and if we’re going to be shot to pieces upon walking out of here, or crawling or however I get myself out, I’d rather die above ground than wait for them to come for us, anyway. I honestly don’t even know what they’re waiting for.”

“Neither do I,” Sherlock says. “Which is admittedly worrisome.” He looks at John in concern. “Are you ready to try it, then?” 

“Yeah,” John says. “You’ll probably have to help me a lot, though.” 

Sherlock leans over and touches his face. “You say that as though it’s a problem,” he says. “It isn’t.” 

John smiles at him and kisses him once and it’s slow and sensuous makes Sherlock feel invincible. “Come on,” John tells him, still smiling. “Help me up, then.” 

Sherlock gets to his feet and pulls John to his. John gingerly tries his right leg and groans, immediately shifting his weight to the left. “Lean on me,” Sherlock tells him at once, putting an arm around his waist to support him. “Can you manage like this? I can carry you, if not…”

John’s arm comes around his back and holds tightly. “No, I think I can manage,” he says, though his voice is roughened with pain. “God!” He grits his teeth. “What I wouldn’t give for a shot of morphine about now!” 

“I know.” Sherlock is sympathetic. “Come on, though. It’s getting even darker in here.” He glances up at the narrow window, where the light is fading. It’s still afternoon – is there a storm on or something? He would check the weather, but there’s no signal on his phone down here. 

They make their way across the chamber in the direction that Mary went earlier. The door is tucked into a short corridor. It is the only door there, and one of Mary’s hairpins is still jammed in the lock, bent and twisted. “I noticed you didn’t tell her that you own a set of lock picks,” John says, snorting at this. 

“I noticed you didn’t tell her, either,” Sherlock returns, and John gives a short laugh through his nose. 

“Fair enough.” He nods at the door. “Well, let’s see what’s out there, then.” 

Sherlock pushes the door open very cautiously. Nothing happens when he opens it, but a familiar smell assails his nostrils. “The Underground,” he observes, _sotto voce_. 

John agrees. “Strange, though,” he says. “You’re _sure_ there’s no connection between Lord Moran and this Colonel?” 

“Fairly certain,” Sherlock tells him. “It seems that my brother rather overestimated the threat level that Lord Moran posed, but Colonel Moran is a cat of another stripe. He’s older, a seasoned sniper. He’s old enough to have been Moriarty’s father rather than his sidekick, but talent rises quickly, I suppose.” He delivers this quite dryly as they get themselves into what is immediately apparent as a disused tunnel. 

“Bit like you,” John points out, peering into the dark. “Looks like that end’s closed off, so we’re meant to go left.” 

“Meant to,” Sherlock agrees. “Let’s see what our options are, though… there might be other ways out.” He adjusts his grip on John’s waist and they strike out to the left. Their progress is slow, every step either of them takes echoing down the long, empty tunnel. The walls are brick, Sherlock notes: an old tunnel, then. He wishes he still had the train spotter’s maps for reference. Without any signs or knowing whereabouts in London they are, it’s very difficult to have the first idea where they could be. Judging by the watery light that was coming in the small window in the cavernous room they were left in, the day has been overcast: impossible to determine anything from the position of the sun. Very well, then: they are blind, more or less. He could test the brick or the soil if he had lab equipment, but he doesn’t. 

Approximately three hundred metres out, they spot the exit at the same time, a single lamp shining from a platform on the left side of the tracks. John points at it silently and Sherlock nods, looking around. The platform is about one hundred metres from where they are, but the tracks fork, one set veering off to the right, curving away from the light and the exit. He looks at John, who shrugs, so they start quietly toward this, well aware that there is probably someone waiting for them at the platform. This new tunnel is dark as pitch, and soon their feet are in water. Sherlock decides not to contemplate how dirty said water likely is, and John endures it in grim silence, limping at his side, his knuckles clenches in the wool of Sherlock’s coat as he tries his best to keep his uneven steps quiet as they splash through the filthy water. 

“I don’t want to risk a light,” Sherlock mutters, meaning his phone. “But we also have no idea where we’re going.” 

John looks behind them. “Do you think we’d be almost out of sight by now?” 

“Maybe,” Sherlock says. “What do you think?” 

“Let’s just have a quick look,” John determines, after thinking for a moment. “If there’s another exit, we’ll miss it. Besides, even talking quietly like this will carry quite far, between the tunnel and the water – I think we’ve probably already given our position away.” 

“Perhaps,” Sherlock says, but he can see the logic of this. He takes out his phone and presses the button to illuminate the screen for four seconds before it shuts off again. They are now ankle-deep in a narrow tunnel only wide enough for a single set of tracks – unusable by modern standards. He has no idea where they are. All he does know is that they have to get to higher ground. He illuminates his phone screen a second time and shines it around the walls. “Aha!”

John sees it, too: a small metal stairway, just four or five steps, leading up to what looks to be a very old door. “It’s probably locked,” he says. “And rusted, if it’s wet.” 

“We’ll see. I do have the lock picks with me,” Sherlock tells him. John hobbles gamely with him toward it. The staircase is too narrow for them both, side-by-side, so John opts to wait in the bilge while Sherlock has a look. There is a chain barring the door, but it’s so rusted that Sherlock thinks it could give way with a bit of force – the only question is how much sound it will make. He conveys this and John makes a thinking sound. 

“Is it locked?” he asks. 

Sherlock shines his phone screen at the door handle and tests it. The thumb lever depresses with some resistance, but it isn’t actually locked. “No,” he says, surprised. 

“Then maybe we could just duck under the chain?” John suggests. 

“Brilliant,” Sherlock says. “I’m coming back down for you.” He makes his way back to John. “You go first,” he says. “Use the rails to pull yourself up and I’ll be right behind you to help. All right?” 

“Sure,” John says, though that grimness is back in his voice. Sherlock helps him and together they get him up to the top. John is wearied by it, though. “I think it’s started to bleed again,” he says, feeling the strips of Sherlock’s shirt. 

A jangling of worry passes through Sherlock’s chest. “Do you want to stop and rest a little?” he asks, trying to mask his concern. 

“No. I want to get out of here,” John says, determination underscoring his words. 

Sherlock hesitates. “If you’re sure you’re all right for that, then.” He waits for John to contradict him or confirm that he is, but he does neither. Instead he puts his arm around Sherlock’s waist again and leans into him. Sherlock supports him to the best of his abilities and shoulders the door open, then gets under the chain and half-helps, half-drags John through with him. 

They find themselves in what can only be ancient sewage tunnels, though they’re empty. The lingering smell is faint but unmistakeable, though the floor is dry. “I don’t even want to think about this,” John says. 

“Agreed,” Sherlock says darkly. “Left or right? What do you think?”

“You’re asking me?” John asks incredulously. 

“I’ve got literally nothing to go on,” Sherlock says wryly. “We might as well rely on your gut instinct, in that case. It’s fairly reliable, illogical as that is.” 

John smirks, and Sherlock is secretly heartened to see him visibly buck up at this. “In that case, let’s try to the left. It slopes upward a little and since we’re trying to get to the surface and all, it makes sense.”

“It could just as easily slope down again later, but yes, let’s try that,” Sherlock assents. They come to one corner, then another, and choose the upward leading one every time until they meet a locked door. Sherlock checks his phone first. Triumph: there are two bars. That will be enough. He shows John the screen, then dials. 

Mycroft picks up on the first ring. “Sherlock!” He sounds both furious and relieved. “Where in God’s name are you?” 

“Haven’t the faintest,” Sherlock tells him, looking around again. “Sewage pipes. Old ones. I only just got a signal and I haven’t checked the GPS yet. Track me.”

“I’m doing it now,” Mycroft tells him, sounding distracted. “Is John with you?” 

“Yes, but he’s been shot,” Sherlock says. “Hurry, will you?” 

“We saw it on the CCTV,” Mycroft says, the grimace obvious in his voice. “You should have come inside. I’ve got your coordinates. You’re nearly outside the city.” 

“Just hurry,” Sherlock repeats, looking at John, who is leaning against a wall, his face ashen and sweating. 

“Hold your position,” Mycroft instructs, and disconnects. 

*** 

“You’re sure you’re all right?” Sherlock asks, drumming his fingers on his knee. 

“Yes, for the fiftieth time!” John sounds exasperated, but gives him a tolerant look as the helicopter drones its way over London. 

“There, sir,” the driver says to Mycroft, next to him in the passenger seat. “That’s where the exit is.” 

“Excellent. Descend,” Mycroft orders, and the small aircraft begins to circle downward. Sherlock’s empty stomach swoops, making him light-headed. Mycroft points. “You see,” he says over his shoulder to them. “This is where you were meant to come out. The area has been cleared through a conveniently anonymous tip about a bomb threat, and now our man has just emerged.”

Sherlock leans forward against his restraints to look out and spots something familiar. He feels a smirk forming. “Ha,” he says to John, next to him in the back of the chopper. “Look what we have here.” 

John cranes his neck to see. Sherlock wonders if he’s too short to see it, but he makes a similarly satisfied sound. “Nice,” he says, then raises his voice. “Mycroft – what’s the plan, exactly?”

“Apprehend, question, decide,” Mycroft lists, without looking back. “I suspect you won’t mind if we arrest your wife this time.” 

“Sure, right after we save her,” John says, with something very like a derisive snort. 

Sherlock is watching the drama below. A bulky, leather-jacketed man in his later fifties is holding Mary in front of him as a human shield, a gun held to her temples. “It looks as though we were right about Moriarty,” he muses. 

John reaches over and squeezes his knee. “ _You_ were right about him,” he corrects. “It was Moran all along – so when Mary tried to sell us out, she ran straight back to a rival rather than a former employer.”

The radio crackles. “Mr Holmes, sir?” 

“Speak.” Mycroft is calm. The helicopter is nearly on the ground. Sherlock looks outside and sees three vehicles pulling up, leaving a wide berth for them. 

“We’ve disabled three snipers in the area, sir. The suspects are cuffed and awaiting charging. Should we turn them over to the police?” 

“No,” Mycroft says. “I will deal with them.” The chopper bumps as it lands, and Mycroft opens his door and steps smoothly out, standing back to wait for them. 

Sherlock pulls John with him and helps him out, then draws the revolver that Mycroft gave him and levels it at Sebastian Moran’s head. “Let her go,” he says, his voice even and unwavering. 

Moran drives the butt more firmly into Mary’s right temple and she winces visibly. “You actually want her, Holmes?” he repeats, sounding both disgusted and amused. “That’s remarkable. Truly remarkable.” 

His accent is heavily North Irish, Sherlock notes. “Your snipers have been dismantled. Moriarty is still dead and your back-up has been captured. You’re completely alone and I have no reason not to shoot. Surrender.” 

Moran shakes his head. “Poor decision. This one’s bad through and through. You know she sold the two of you out, right? Even you,” he says, directing this at John. “Her own husband. She left the two of you there in a bomb trap, one of you with a bullet in his leg, and came straight to me. Course, she didn’t know it was me, but there you go. I could kill her for you and you’d thank me. In fact – ”

Sherlock sees his finger tighten and reacts on instinct, shooting first. Moran’s shot goes wide and although Mary screams and falls to her knees, she is not hit. Moran falls backward, Sherlock’s bullet leaving a perfect circle in his forehead. 

Mycroft crooks a finger and three agents rush forward from the vehicles and grab Mary, pulling her to her feet and cuffing her. She is visibly shaken. 

“Help me,” John says to Sherlock, and together they move forward and stop in front of Mary. 

She looks at John, her eyes still defiant, but she doesn’t speak. Perhaps she does not know what to say, Sherlock speculates, watching her. 

“You betrayed me,” John says, his voice even, but his arm is rigid around Sherlock’s back, the biceps bunching, tense. 

Mary swallows. “You left me,” she says. Her eyes cut to Sherlock, as though waiting for him to deny it. 

He doesn’t. “John gave you a chance,” he says. “You should have taken it.”

“We didn’t have to save you,” John tells her. His voice is tight. “Most other people wouldn’t have. You shot Sherlock. And you left us to die in a bomb trap. You drugged us and left us, when you know we would have helped you. You claim that you love me, but this? This is the opposite, Mary.”

“I _did_ love you,” Mary says, her blue eyes glassing over with tears. 

John shakes his head. “You don’t even know what love is,” he says shortly. “That’s the real irony here: you tried to convince me that Sherlock doesn’t even have those feelings, but he, a self-professed sociopath, is the one who knows exactly what it is. Whereas you would rather see me dead than love someone else. I was nothing more than collateral damage to you, too.”

Mary frowns. “What? That doesn’t even make any sense, John!”

“Doesn’t it?” John thrusts out his chin at her. “You were willing to throw my happiness under the bus, make me go through all that grief all over again when you shot Sherlock. You didn’t care about how I felt. You just wanted to have everything your way, be allowed to keep your secrets at any cost, including me. And it did cost you me in the end, because making me believe a lie was more important to you than I was. You left us behind to die. I don’t owe you anything any more. Not one thing.”

Mary swallows again and she does not try to contradict his words. Her eyes go to Mycroft. “What happens now?” she asks, her voice wary. 

“Now you go to prison,” John informs her before Mycroft can. She opens her mouth to protest, but he shakes his head again. “No. You had your chance. I don’t want to hear it.” He looks back at Mycroft. “She’s all yours,” he says. 

“Wise choice,” Mycroft says, and the agents take Mary away. She looks back at Sherlock, enough hate in her wet eyes to level a skyscraper. 

He endures it, and then she is gone. He looks at John. “You need to go to a hospital,” he says, and John doesn’t argue any more. 

Instead, he sags against Sherlock. “Yes,” he says, grimacing. “But you’ll – ”

“I’m coming with you,” Sherlock says, and it’s a vow. 

There is an ambulance waiting behind the other cars. Sherlock thinks that it would be easier on John to carry him there, but doesn’t want to offend his sensibilities in front of Mycroft and all the agents, so instead they make their slow way to the ambulance. “It’s all over now,” John says, his voice threaded with pain as they get him settled on a stretcher. 

Sherlock fastens the seat belt across his chest and kisses him on the forehead in spite of the paramedics at the foot of the stretcher. “No,” he contradicts him, his voice low and gentler than he knew it would come out sounding. “Now it’s really beginning.” 

*** 

Three days later, John is finally permitted to leave the hospital, bandaging still wound tightly around his right calf just below the knee. He is given warnings and medication and only half listens to it as they wait impatiently for the official dismissal. He refuses a cane or crutches and leans heavily on Sherlock and limps his way out of the hospital. 

After the taxi, Sherlock carries John up the stairs, which John tries to protest but he’s giggling too hard. Sherlock is laughing by the time they get to the top, too. “You’re wounded,” he insists. “You should let me.” 

“You didn’t give me much of a choice, you tit,” John says as Sherlock shoulders the door to the flat open and lets him down at last. John leaves his arms around Sherlock’s neck as his feet come into contact with the floor, his eyelids half closing as his puts his mouth on Sherlock’s. They kiss for a long moment, mouths parting and coming together again over and over again. John is shamelessly pulling Sherlock’s shirt from his trousers and sliding his cold hands up Sherlock’s back, his hips pressing Sherlock back into the closed door. Sherlock winds his arms around John’s back and revels in the feeling of actually holding John this way, tight in his arms in their own flat – the flat that John is not going to leave again. Not this time. This time, he’s here for good, and Sherlock feels distinctly triumphant over the fact. John finally stops kissing him and transfers his hands to Sherlock’s face. “I’ve been wanting to do that for days,” he murmurs, his eyes going from Sherlock’s lips to his eyes. “Can’t go snogging in the hospital.” 

“Not very well,” Sherlock concedes. “But we’re home now…” He lifts his eyebrows in suggestion, feeling his eyes glint, and John grins. 

“My thoughts exactly,” he says. “I believe I made you some fairly specific promises back there in that chamber we were dumped in.”

Sherlock nods, his pulse already accelerating. “You did say a few things,” he allows. 

John’s hips press into his, his arousal becoming rather apparent. “Exactly,” he says. “So let’s do this: I’m going to have a quick shower and get the hospital smell off me. And when I’ve finished, you can jump in, because you smell of hospital, too, and it’s the least sexy scent I can think of. When you’ve finished, I’ll be in your bedroom, waiting.” 

Sherlock’s mouth suddenly has too much saliva and he has to swallow. “All right,” he manages, and John’s eyes crinkle up, laughing at him. “What do you want me to do while you’re showering?” 

“Make sure your room is presentable,” John tells him. “Come on: you can help me hobble to the loo.” 

Sherlock puts an arm around John’s waist and they move down the corridor toward the loo. “We could just shower together and save time,” he says, already suspecting that John won’t go for it, but he feels rather anxious to skip ahead. 

John shakes his head and smiles. “I want to do this properly,” he says. “If we shower together, it’ll be over too fast.”

They’re at the bathroom and Sherlock still feels tremendously reluctant to let go of John even for a moment. “John,” he says, trailing off, angling his face toward John’s, and John takes pity on him and draws him down for another long kiss. 

“I’ll be quick,” he promises, his voice hazy. He kisses Sherlock again, then again. “Come on. I won’t disappear. I’m yours now. You know that.” 

Sherlock’s hand tightens on the back of John’s neck. “I think I do,” he says. His voice sounds unfocused to his ears. “Convince me some more.” 

“You’re incorrigible,” John says, but he says it with a great deal of affection. “Five minutes. I’ll be right there.”

“Two minutes,” Sherlock counters. 

“Three.” John lets go of him. “Get ready to shower, because I’ll stick to that!” He gives Sherlock a look so full of snap and fire that Sherlock almost groans when John closes the bathroom door not quite in his face. 

He flies into action, though, charging into the room and straightening things up. The bed is made but there are clothes here and there. He pulls off his clothes and folds them, then thinks to check the drawer of his night stand. He doesn’t know precisely what John has in mind (this makes him apprehensive) or what they will need, but he has condoms (leftover from an experiment, nowhere more sensible to store them) and lubricant (for solo use). Is that sufficient? Sherlock feels dubious. 

The shower water shuts off. “Are you ready?” John calls. 

“Yes!” Sherlock goes to the door of the bathroom. “Should I come in?” 

“Sure,” John says. He has a towel around his waist when Sherlock goes in, instantly noting the bulge beneath it, and is using another to dry his hair. 

Sherlock is in his underwear and suddenly feels very much unclad. His own arousal must be fairly obvious, and he becomes aware that John’s eyes are travelling over his body, hungrily drinking in the sight of him. It makes him feel twice as nude and rather nervous. “Should I – is there anything in particular you would – that I should – do?” Sherlock asks, feeling awkward. 

John smiles and there is something predatory in the smile. “Just be clean everywhere,” he says. “You have precisely three minutes, and it had better be three, Sherlock, because otherwise I might have to come and physically drag you to bed.”

Sherlock goes over to him and puts his palm against the hardness beneath the thick layer of terry towel, cupping it, and is rewarded by John’s sudden hiss of breath. “No dragging will be necessary, I assure you,” he says, his voice coming out an octave lower. 

“Sher – ” John takes him by the face and kisses him hard and Sherlock presses himself to John’s towel. John’s skin is warm and wet and Sherlock touches it with a delirious sense of wonder that he is permitted to do so, barely aware that he is making sounds into John’s mouth as they kiss. 

He pulls himself away with great reluctance. “Shower,” he says, the word coming out garbled, and John nods rapidly. 

“Yes – go!” he says. “I’ll be waiting. Impatiently.”

Sherlock makes a sound of slight frustration, but reaches for the tap to turn on the water. He looks over his shoulder and John has gone, so he removes his underwear and steps into the stream of water. It was a good idea, he thinks; he only showered once at the hospital and was feeling it. He washes himself quickly but thoroughly, bearing John’s instruction in mind. It’s difficult to avoid touching himself a little as he washes there, but he manages to restrain himself. (What will John want to do?) The possibilities seem endless and knowing would not help him because he has almost no related experience, as Mary forced him to confess. He shuts off the water, his pulse quick. 

“That was two minutes and fifty seconds,” John says from the bedroom, his voice lazy and amused, laced with something darker just beneath the amusement. “Hurry, Sherlock.” 

Sherlock whisks the towel across his skin as quickly as possible, the hurry distracting him from his apprehension. He knots the towel around his hips and goes to the doorway. “Three minutes,” he announces, and then his eyes fall on John and he loses all ability to speak. 

John is lying on his back in the middle of the bed. The blankets have been removed, only a sheet left to slither up between John’s thighs, just barely covering an obvious erection which his hand is cupping, shielding from view. The other arm is behind his head. John looks completely at ease in his skin, enviably so, Sherlock thinks, unable to take his eyes from John’s nude form. “Lose the towel,” John tells him, his eyes gleaming, head turned toward him. 

Wordlessly Sherlock slips his thumb into the top of the towel and it loosens and slips down his legs in a heap. He feels rather as though he is awaiting a verdict and hopes that he will pass inspection. It would be demoralising to see disappointment on John’s face. 

John’s eyes devour him as he sits up slowly, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. “Good God,” he says, his voice heavy. “Look at you. Just look at you.” 

Sherlock still feels immensely self-conscious but attempts not to show it. “Is it… all right?” he asks, trying to sound as though he doesn’t particularly care. 

John shakes his head. “You are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.” He raises his eyes to Sherlock’s. “I mean that,” he says, and Sherlock finds himself unexpectedly moved, his throat closing. 

He had always imagined that if John could one day be persuaded to try this, try being with him this way, it would always be well understood between them that he was a second best replacement to his feckless wife, the better alternative to strings of temporary girlfriends like before. Never this. He doesn’t know what to say. He swallows. 

John’s eyes are on his face, softer than they should be. “Come here,” he says, and Sherlock somehow makes his legs function and goes. John pulls back the sheet so that no part of him is covered, widening his thighs so that Sherlock can stand between his knees. With reverent hands he strokes Sherlock’s sides and hips and thighs, then leans forward to press his lips to Sherlock’s flat stomach. It tickles and arouses him at the same time, his arousal swelling even further. John holds him in place and kisses a trail down his belly, his mouth open, tongue stroking. He gets to his feet and puts his mouth on Sherlock’s throat, his hands tracking over Sherlock’s back and down to his arse. Sherlock can feel their erections touching and shivers and John makes a sound against his skin, warm and reverberating there. 

“Can I – ?” Sherlock asks, putting his hands in John’s hair and on his back respectively, and John makes a fervent sound of agreement. He touches John in a way he’s only ever imagined before, trying to memorise every skin cell kinaesthetically. John is still warm from the shower and this feels terribly important, somehow. The first time. The first real time. He knows vaguely that John staying does not pivot on this going well, but he is terribly conscious of needing for it to go well regardless. He touches John carefully, though his hunger for him must be evident in the way his fingers move over John’s body. 

John lifts his head and puts their mouths together again, and it’s wonderful. There is no other word for it. Sherlock feels as though John is fusing their very beings together and he craves even more of it. His hands become rapidly less careful and more urgent, and when his hands caress and then grip the firm curves of John’s arse, both of John’s hands on his, John groans into his mouth. He pulls Sherlock with him and they fall into bed, Sherlock writhing on top of him until John turns them over. Sherlock is panting as John inches down his body, his hands and mouth leaving a trail of warmth and pleasure as they go. When his mouth dips over the head of Sherlock’s penis, Sherlock cries out in spite of himself, just once, but John makes a satisfied sound and does it again, sucking and licking, his mouth bobbing hotly over Sherlock’s flesh. 

His fingers are buried in John’s fine hair, probably clenching much too hard, but John hasn’t protested. Sherlock makes himself let go and clutches at anything else he can reach – his chest, the sheets, his face. The pleasure is tightening in his pelvis and he doesn’t know whether John intends him to climax this early – he did say something about wanting to do this ‘properly’, Sherlock recalls – so he gasps out John’s name in warning. 

John lifts off him, his perfectly-formed lips reddish and slightly swollen. “Too much?” he asks, nicely, and Sherlock shakes his head. 

“I just – I don’t want to – ”

John smiles at him, his eyes very blue in the warm lamp light. “I wasn’t going to let you come just yet, don’t worry,” he tells Sherlock. “But you liked it?” 

Sherlock nods without thinking about it. “Quite a lot,” he admits, feeling unexpectedly bashful about acknowledging this. “I want to do something for you, though.” 

“Oh, believe me, this is doing plenty for me,” John assures him, sliding back up to place himself in the crook of Sherlock’s arm. He gives his erection a stroke. “Have a look.” 

Sherlock does just that, privately glad to have been given an open invitation to do so. John is extremely hard, his penis thick and curving very slightly upward. The head of it is wet and glistening and Sherlock finds himself reaching for it, fascinated. “May I?” 

“Oh yes,” John assures him, moving his hand out of the way. He puts a hand on Sherlock’s stomach. “It’s yours, you know. You can do whatever you like with it.” 

This is so much that Sherlock doesn’t know how to respond. He touches John instead, feeling the heat and weight of his erection, watching the way it reacts as his strokes it, exploring the dusky warmth of the testicles beneath. He bends, needing to taste it. “Can I – ”

“You don’t have to ask.” John’s voice is strained with desire and he exhales heavily as Sherlock’s mouth envelopes him. “Oh, _God_. Oh, that’s good. Christ, Sherlock, I had no idea you could – ohhh. Fuck, yes, that’s – mmm…” His heartfelt reactions encourage Sherlock as he tastes that which is uniquely John. He hates that others have tasted it before him and suddenly thinks that he has that, at least, to offer John. Perhaps it doesn’t matter to John. But perhaps it will be what offsets his lack of experience in this. It feels instinctive, somehow, letting his tongue curve around the underside of John’s penis, keeping his teeth covered and remembering to suck the way John did, his tongue sliding and pressing against the leaking head. It twitches in his mouth as though communicating directly with his tongue in some secret language of lovers that he didn’t realise he knew. He loves it, he thinks, holding John’s testicles in his hand and feeling them move, seeking just behind them with his middle finger, exploring. John groans and pushes gently at his head. “Sherlock – stop,” he says, breathing heavily. “It’s amazing – it’s so good, but I don’t want to come yet, either!” 

Sherlock reluctantly stops and lets John tug him upward by the shoulders. They kiss again, legs rubbing together, arms around each other, and Sherlock thinks for a few heady moments that he is in absolute bliss. The break, meant to give them both a moment to calm down, is short-lived, as neither of them can seemingly keep from touching the other. John’s hand reaches out first, not breaking the kiss, and Sherlock instinctively reaches for him, too, and they lie on their sides that way, kissing and stroking each other. 

John is making the most delectable sounds, and finally he loses his ability to stave himself and rolls on top of Sherlock, rubbing directly against him, the way they did in the underground chamber, only with John on top the way Sherlock had wanted at the time. 

“Is your leg all right?” Sherlock asks suddenly, though it’s gasped out through a hazy cloud of lust. 

“Fuck my leg,” John grunts, thrusting against him, and Sherlock lets it go, holding John to himself by his arse and drowning in glorious sensation. John stops and lifts his head from where it was resting on Sherlock’s forehead, looking down at him. “I’m already pretty close,” he admits. “We could just do this, if you want. But – ”

“No,” Sherlock says, the word saying itself before he can filter it. “I want – more. It’s good, but – ”

“But?” John doesn’t try to finish his sentence. “What would you like, Sherlock?” 

Sherlock doesn’t hold it back or try to filter it, excuse it, repress it. This time, he doesn’t have to. “I want to – do it for real,” he says. “I want to have sex. Properly. All the way.” 

John nods quickly. “God, I was hoping you would say that!” He kisses Sherlock hard, three times in rapid succession, then asks, “Which way?”

“Wh – ” Sherlock isn’t entirely sure what John means, though he dislikes having to ask for clarification on something probably rather elementary. 

“Which way would you like to do it?” John asks, very directly. “Would you like to top or bottom? What’s most appealing to you? I don’t care. I’m very happy to try it either way.”

Sherlock swallows. “I – don’t know what I’m doing,” he says, striving not to sound awkward. “Therefore I think that you should – at least this time.” 

John smiles at him, a particularly wonderful smile that Sherlock has never seen before. “I’ve never done this, either,” he says, as though reminding Sherlock (though it’s new information and very welcome at that). “But I am a doctor, so – perhaps you’re right.” He reaches under the pillow and withdraws Sherlock’s lubricant. “I was glad to see that you have this,” he says, his eyes crinkling at the edges. 

“It… comes in handy,” Sherlock says vaguely, and John laughs at him. 

“I’ll bet it does,” he says emphatically. He shakes his head, his hand drifting down Sherlock’s body. “Seriously, though, Sherlock, the world has been missing out. You’re _gorgeous_. I am so, so lucky. Don’t think I don’t know that.” 

Sherlock blinks at him. “I’m the lucky one,” he says in stark honesty. “I mean that, John. I never really expected this to happen, you know.” 

“But you wanted it?” John gives him a quick look, verifying. 

Sherlock nods. “So much, John.” He waits a moment, then adds, “That night in the park, when you almost kissed me – ”

“When I _would_ have kissed you, if your brother hadn’t interrupted,” John cuts in, correcting him. 

“Right – I had already wanted it for a long time by then,” Sherlock tells him. “I didn’t want to ask or bring it up and I never really thought it was realistic to hope that you might want this one day, but – ”

“But you wanted it anyway,” John says, this time finishing his thought. When Sherlock nods, agreeing, John smiles at him again, his face coming closer. “I used to think the very same thing, back in our early days,” he says. “I tried not to let myself think about it, but it was always there. I always wanted this. You. I just never thought it could happen. But here we are.” His eyes drift closed. “Kiss me,” he says, and Sherlock pulls his face down, opening his mouth to John. 

John touches him as they kiss, his hand caressing Sherlock’s aching erection, then rubbing behind it until his finger is massaging the entrance to Sherlock’s body. He makes reassuring sounds at Sherlock when he reacts vocally to John’s lubricant-slicked fingers sliding into him, gentle at first, then more insistently as Sherlock’s discomfort melts away into saliva-inducing pleasure. “More?” John asks, and Sherlock is nearly incoherent already, communicating in sounds rather than words. John has three fingers in him now and Sherlock’s erection is smearing liquid over his lower belly where it’s straining, as though trying to reach John’s mouth again. Said mouth is otherwise occupied on Sherlock’s throat and jaw, kissing him as he pants and writhes against John’s fingers until he’s begging, awkwardness forgotten. John takes pity on him at last, arranging Sherlock’s legs and fitting himself between them. Sherlock was expecting to be told to turn over, but John evidently wants to do this face-to-face. “Ready?” John asks, and Sherlock nods. 

It’s a little tight as John’s thick penis pushes into him, but Sherlock is exquisitely aware of the intimacy of it, of every inch of John as it enters him, filling him and completing him in a way that leaves him breathless and feeling whole, one with John. John’s eyes are on his when Sherlock opens his, and he feels that John is bonded to him, body and soul. It doesn’t even have to be said: he knows that they both simply know, unarguably. They belong to one another now, and nothing can change that. “John…” The name says itself and he reaches for John’s face, unaware that his voice is tight. 

John shifts his weight to his left arm and puts his hand over Sherlock’s on his face. “I know,” he says, his voice a little rough. “God, yes. I know.” He turns his face into Sherlock’s palm and kisses it. “Are you all right?” he asks, very, very gently. “I’m not – it’s not too – ”

“It’s – perfect,” Sherlock manages to tell him. “You can – move, if you want to.” 

John puts his hand back down and starts to do exactly that, his penis shifting and sliding within Sherlock’s body. The lubricant helps, and it doesn’t take long before the sensation of having it there within Sherlock begins to produce the same pleasure as John’s fingers had. Or, as Sherlock discovers a moment or two later, gasping, even more: the curve of John’s penis is apparently perfect for angling into Sherlock’s prostate (it must be that, Sherlock thinks, practically drooling in this newfound well of pleasure). He can hear himself moaning, unable to control it, and John echoes it, his eyes closing partway as he pumps his hips into Sherlock’s body, driving himself ever deeper, over and over again. “Does it feel good?” he asks, panting. 

Sherlock is barely even able to form words. “Yes! Please, J – ” He breaks off, reaching down to grip at John’s arse as tightly as he is able, and John gets the message at once and starts thrusting faster and harder. Sherlock groans, feeling the pleasure tighten like a vice within his body, ratcheting higher and higher. He feels his testicles tingle and then John puts his hand on his penis and squeezes and Sherlock feels the oxygen freeze in his lungs, suspended, as blinding waves of pleasure roll over him, crashing like surf against the shore. He cannot breathe as the orgasm grips his body, pulsing out of him in wet surges, his penis jerking in John’s fist, his prostate sparking and imploding against the pressure of John’s penis within him. It finally passes and the sound of John’s fervent cursing comes back into his hearing. Then John lets go at last, thrusting into him so hard that their bodies are slamming together, John’s hips snapping forward again and again until his entire body spasms and his eyes squeeze shut, his hips stilling, and Sherlock feels the rush of wet heat spilling into him. There’s another long thrust and then the heat comes again, then again, and then John’s body goes limp in his arms, falling forward onto Sherlock’s chest. 

For a long time, neither of them is even capable of speech. They lie there together, Sherlock’s arms and hands moving over John’s back, feeling John’s penis soften within him as his own is doing between their bodies, and Sherlock feels in a burst of passion that this one moment of all moments is utterly perfect. He feels so emotional that he could nearly weep. (But he won’t. Will he? No. This is _good_. No reason for tears.) He feels bonded to John in every manner possible. John is literally inside him, one with him, and he never wants to be further apart than this for the rest of his life. And he feels as though he can actually feel John feeling all of the same things, that their thoughts are in perfect communion at the moment. “I love you,” he says eventually, into John’s hair. He knows that John knows, but he simply wanted to say it again. 

John lifts his face from the juncture of Sherlock’s neck and shoulder and Sherlock is surprised to see genuine moisture in his eyes. “I love you, too,” he says, his voice rough in the same way that it was before. Sherlock doesn’t have to reach for the kiss this time. It goes on for ages, confirming and reconfirming everything that’s happened between them. It feels like much later when John says at last, “That… was the most perfect, incredible thing I could have imagined. We were made for each other, you know.” 

Sherlock smiles, more pleased than he wants to admit by this. And relieved. He doesn’t want to ask how it compares to all of the other times John has had sex, though a part of him is intensely curious. (But he would also hate knowing that other partners ranked ahead of him. Better to remain in ignorance, then.) Still, he can’t quite keep from saying something. “It was all right?” he asks. “I mean, for me it was incomparable – literally, but for you – ”

“Sherlock,” John interrupts him, kindly, mercifully, “do shut up. That was the best sex I’ve ever had in my life, all right? I mean that. And no, I’m not just making that up to make you feel good. That was… extraordinary. Breathtaking. Exquisite. I’ve never felt so good in all my life, from start to finish. You are phenomenal.” He pushes his fingers into Sherlock’s hair and watches him struggle to form a response to this. “No – don’t argue,” John says, forestalling this. “It’s true. You are incredible. I have to say it again: I am so, so lucky. We’re so lucky that this worked out in the end. Because now we have this. For the rest of our lives, if you want it. I know I do.” 

Sherlock’s throat is horribly tight. “I do,” he says. “For God’s sake, John – what have you done to me?” He can barely speak, his voice trembling. John laughs and pulls him into a hug so tight Sherlock can hardly breathe but he doesn’t care. (Breathing is boring.) He gets all four of his limbs wrapped around John like an octopus and holds tight. Something occurs to him and he says it without filtering or checking it. “I promise you’ll never be collateral damage to me. I promise to put your happiness first.” 

He can feel rather than see John shake his head. “You already have,” he says, his own voice tight. “That’s how I knew that you knew how to love, Sherlock. Ever since you jumped from the roof of Bart’s Hospital, you’ve done nothing but put me first. Don’t think I’m unaware of that. You’re literally the opposite of my soon-to-be-ex-wife. Not that it’s about comparisons, because it isn’t. But you love me: I know that with every fibre of my being, and I love you, too.” He pulls back just enough to look Sherlock in the eye. “We’re the luckiest bastards alive, you know that? We wrecked so many chances at having this, and yet somehow we still got here. I guess it was just meant to be.” 

Sherlock thinks fleetingly about saying something along the lines of not believing in fate or destiny or things being ‘meant to be’. He opens his mouth, then wisely rethinks what he was about to say. “I guess it was,” he says instead, and John laughs. 

“Wise answer,” he says. 

Sherlock doesn’t bother replying to this; likely he would only get himself into trouble. He feels far too deliciously sated and relaxed to be in the mood for verbal sparring, anyway. This is phenomenal. It’s everything he’s wanted in the past several years, and having it is incredibly sweet and takes nothing away in having finally been won. “Kiss me,” he says, still marvelling that he can say this, and John acquiesces easily and happily. 

It doesn’t matter any more that this is years late. It doesn’t matter that John got married or that he got shot. That they were abducted, that someone dug a bullet out of John’s leg mere days ago. That Mary betrayed them and left them behind to die. None of it matters any more, because now they have it and if Sherlock has anything to say about it, they will never lose it. 

It’s perfect.

*


End file.
